


Enough: Short Story Long

by bideru



Series: Tales from Silvermoon [3]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, Blood Knights, Copious amounts of alcohol - Freeform, F/M, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mild Smut, Offscreen character death, an appreciation for hawkstriders, arthas menethil hate space, astalor is a nervous wreck, astalor is a precious bean, astalor loves his wife, crying over cake, don't do blood magic kids, don't do fel magic kids, free salandria, freewheeling in dalaran, halduron and astalor are both underhanded little shits, halduron finally gets to hit a troll, halduron hates trolls, halduron needs all the hugs, holy treason, i don't know how the murlocs happened, i gave some backstory to some wretched and now i'm sad, kael holds himself together surprisingly well for such an emotional man, lana'thel's having a bad time, local idiots drink to stop feeling feelings, long ago quel'thalas lived in harmony but everything changed when the scourge attacked, no beta we die like men, not dragon approved, rommath and astalor's epic bromance, rommath has a bad time, rommath has siblings, rommath is a sentimental old bastard, rommath loves cats, rommath needs therapy, rommath not being an asshole for once, so much research has gone into this fic and you see so little of it i weep, stupid sexy sunstriders, tfw you go on vacation and the cat is mad at you, the slow and steady corruption of kael'thas sunstrider, them sunstriders have some strong pheromones, this author loves obscure characters, welcome back home is hell now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 44
Words: 198,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24298159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bideru/pseuds/bideru
Summary: When Grand Magister Rommath was in his cups, he allowed himself to think of Kael'thas, and through copious setbacks and aggressive cheerleading from his colleagues and Astalor, becomes whole again.EDIT Jan 2021: This fic is currently undergoing maintenance, with formatting and tense changes in several chapters. Please be kind if you are reading during this time.
Relationships: Halduron Brightwing/Dark Ranger Velonara, Liadrin/Lor'themar Theron, Rommath/Kael'thas Sunstrider, endgame Aethas/Arator, endgame Rommath/OC but that wasn't actually planned, implied Thalorien/Lana'thel, one-sided Rommath/Kael'thas - Relationship
Series: Tales from Silvermoon [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1747684
Comments: 171
Kudos: 82





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't quite the Rommath fic I had intended to write but it IS a Rommath fic and that's no loss. 
> 
> The Warden of the Sunwell is a title that Lor'themar has, and I found myself thinking: What if that wasn't a title but also an office, like Grand Magister or Ranger General? And so the Lady Neeluu was born. Her secondary title, the Light of Dawn, comes from the title you get in-game when you defeat the Lich King. I think it's quite odd that there's no one permanently stationed as a guardian over the most sacred and holy site in Quel'Thalas, so that is my very small contribution to canon.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Triumvirate buries the Prince of the Quel'Thalas and Rommath has some feelings about it.

“Are you coming?” Brightwing asks, and Rommath is glad for the mask covering his face. It gives him a moment to compose himself, a blessed veil between himself and the world. He presses his mouth into a thin line. Clenches his jaw. 

“In a moment,” he manages, and it does not slip by him the look the two rangers share. Brightwing’s face is open, his every emotion plastered upon it, and that Lor’themar Theron, the _Regent Lord_ , is no better, even if he only has one eye. They still don’t trust him, Rommath knows, and with their prince dead and buried before them, they are probably waiting to see what he’ll do. Whose side he’s really on. As if Rommath hasn’t made that clear, over and over. As if he hadn’t stood before his friend and prince not three days before and _refused_ him, _disobeyed_ him. As if there hadn’t been shock in Kael’s eyes, shock and hurt and then fury, at his disloyalty. And when the flames had crackled in Kael’s hand, his fel green eyes glittering dangerously, Rommath could feel himself breaking as he raised his hand against his prince ﹣

“I will follow when I am ready,” he snaps, his eyes burning and focused on a point in the distant horizon. “There are those of us in this world who are capable of doing things for themselves.” The venom in his voice leaves no room for debate that he thinks Theron and Brightwing are unable to even dress themselves, let alone find their way back to Dawnstar Village along the clearly marked path. 

Brightwing makes a noise of disgust, and Rommath imagines it accompanies a rude hand gesture. Rangers are so uncouth and savage. “Come on, Lor,” he grumbles, and there is a sound of footsteps stomping away, and the chirruping of a hawkstrider as he mounts. Theron takes longer, perhaps paralyzed by the multitude of insults and curses Rommath is slinging at him in his mind, but eventually there is the merciful sound of boots crunching on dirt. 

A pause. “Rommath?”

“Grand Magister,” Rommath corrects, not for the first time, through gritted teeth.

“Grand Magister then.” Theron speaks cautiously, as though confronting an angry lynx. An angry lynx who can shoot fireballs. “It may be easier, I think, to bear a burden among friends.”

Rommath clenches his teeth so hard his jaw hurts. He hears the enamel squeaking as his molars grind against each other. “Please leave, Regent Lord Theron,” he growls, each word forced. “I am fine.”

“Lor’themar!” Brightwing calls impatiently. There is Theron’s own friend, with his own burden. He needs Theron, not Rommath. Rommath needs no one. 

After a moment, Theron leaves him, and Rommath hears the pitter patter of hawkstrider feet fade into the distance. He stares into the horizon as long as he is able, biting the inside of his cheek. He does not look at the grave. If it can even be called a grave. There is no headstone, nothing to mark this as the resting place of the last of the Sunstriders. Just a plot of overturned dirt, and even that will soon grow over with grass. 

His eyes burn. 

His robes have dirt on them. He and Theron and Brightwing dug the grave by hand. He had refused the help of the Dawnblade guards. Rommath had never known how difficult it was to dig a grave; he had burned the dead of the Scourge. It was good work, and filling in the grave had been a lot easier than digging it. Theron, as Regent Lord, let fall the first shovelful. Rommath found that throwing dirt on his prince had been almost as difficult ﹣ almost, but not quite ﹣ as deciding he could not support him. 

His eyes fall. He wills them not to, tells himself not to look, but there’s the grave. There’s his prince. There lays the man Rommath has known since boyhood, the man he has ﹣ _had_ ﹣ dedicated his life to. And yes, if he closes his eyes, he sees Kael as he had found him, dead and decapitated and emaciated on the floor of the Magister’s Terrace, but that Kael isn’t _real_ to him. That Kael is obscured by the Kael who laughed in the morning sun as he passed along an extra strong coffee. The Kael with fire in his eyes as he argued passionately on the Council of Six. The Kael whose eyes glazed over in their history lessons but could talk even Rommath around in circles over magical theory. 

Rommath doesn’t know when it started and there’s no longer any Brightwing or Theron to force him to maintain a straight face. His high collar becomes damp as the tears he won’t acknowledge roll down his face and neck. He clenches his fists.

 _I loved you_.

He hasn’t slept in three days, and every muscle aches. The destruction of the Sunwell has hit mages hardest of all. He knows Kael’s choice was the right one, that every step he took until the last fatal slip was for the good of Quel’Thalas and their people. He _knows_ this. Yet, when he’d laid eyes on what his prince had become…

_I loved you._

The tears come hot and fast, and he weeps.

* * *

Dusk has fallen. Rommath thinks dully that he can’t believe Theron and Brightwing haven’t sent search parties for him. Perhaps a Dawnblade guard passed along word that he has not fled the kingdom.

Kael’thas is buried on the far end of Quel’Danas, where the Sunwell Grove tapers to meet gently with the white rock cliffs that line the beaches. Kael had always loved this little clearing. Only the Dawnblade used the far side of the isle, and this secluded spot had provided shade from the sun and sanctuary from their tutors. Rommath thinks he would rather curl up here like he used to when he and Kael were boys, just throw himself flat on the ground and sleep, and if Theron and Brightwing thought he had fled to Kalimdor or Outland then he won’t have to put up with them desecrating the Sunspire with their brutish ways any longer. 

(He knows this is the grief talking. He knows he needs to get back soon. But Theron and Brightwing were possibly the worst candidates to run the kingdom, as he had told Kael several times. Kael had always laughed at him and told him _Well set them right then_.)

He doesn’t hear the soft footfalls until they’re nearly on him and he curses himself for it. He can’t keep blaming the loss of the Sunwell for his mistakes. (Although when he doubles over and gasps for breath after a simple conjuration, he knows that’s the Sunwell’s loss he feels. Or when he wakes up cold and clammy in the middle of the night, or when he pretends to ignore the hanks of hair falling out.) He’s tired much of the time, but this does not excuse his hearing. He curses more when he sees that the feet making the noise, the quality of the fabric of her robes, belong to the Lady Neeluu, Warden of the Sunwell and the Light of Dawn.

He does not want to entertain and be polite and watch himself. He wants a stiff drink or three and his bed. 

“My lady,” he says in greeting, though it comes out as a croak. His throat hurts from his earlier sobbing. 

Lady Neeluu smiles softly at him and kneels beside him, before Kael’s grave. She no longer wears the purple of the Kirin Tor, having shed it for the scarlet and gold of her new office. Like him, she bears dark circles under her eyes, and her hair hangs limp. “Grand Magister.” Like him, she also depended on the Sunwell, and she is tired too.

Rommath struggles not to lash out at her the way he had Theron and Brightwing. One does not lash at the Warden of the Sunwell. In the end, he keeps silent. He can think of nothing to say anyway. Neeluu seems not to notice, and if she does, she does not mind.

“I thought to visit Kael’thas,” she says gently, and places her hand on the dirt. “I am sorry I did not come sooner. It would have only attracted the attention you so clearly did not want.” Rommath remembers she had mentioned meetings with her Dawnblades, with the restoration crew sent from Silvermoon, with the shipmaster to send what supplies they could spare to the city. Things that could have been put off for another time, for the Warden of the Sunwell was always present to bury a monarch. She and Theron had buried Anasterian together.

_Kael was not a monarch. He will never be king._

He bites the inside of his cheek again. He tastes blood.

“Grand Magister.” When he doesn’t look, she tries again. “Rommath,” she presses, and this time he does look. When did she become so regal? He doesn’t think it suits her. 

“When did you last eat?” she was asking, and Rommath honestly cannot remember. Or rather, he can remember ﹣ he ate this morning with Theron and Brightwing in Neeluu’s home, and he promptly vomited it back up not half an hour later. It had been much the same since Kael had died. His body seems to be sustaining itself on grief and the residual energy of the Sunwell.

Her fist closes in the dirt of Kael’s grave. “I know,” she says somberly, as if he'd spoken. “I haven’t much of an appetite either. Some of Dalaran’s red velvet cake would be nice right about now, wouldn't it?” She smiles morosely at him, and the image of the three of them ﹣ her, him, and Kael ﹣ comes to him unbidden. Lady Neeluu has a sweet tooth, and so does Kael, and Rommath puts up with it because it makes him happy to see Kael happy, so he dutifully tastes every confection with which Neeluu plies his prince. Once they’d discovered the red velvet cake… Kael had wanted nothing else, and even Rommath had acknowledged its superiority over Dalaran's other confectionery finery.

Dalaran had been so good to him. To them. Their tutors in Dalaran had not treated Kael as their tutors in Quel'Thalas had, as something akin to a god. Sure, Kael had been a prodigy with magic, but his had been a raw, unrefined talent, liable to hurt himself and anyone around him. Rommath had watched him, over the centuries, grow from the spoiled terror prince to a well spoken, conscientious adult. He would have been proud to call Kael his king.

He thinks his lip is wobbling. He presses it firmly against the other and forces thoughts of red velvet cake and his youth in Dalaran from his mind.

“I don’t believe there’s any cake.” Neeluu is holding the grave dirt as if it were a lifeline. Rommath knows the feeling. “But there _is_ fresh bread back at the estate. And deep fried plantains.”

There is dirt on his robes. There is dirt on his hands, and there is probably dirt on his face. He knows he looks terrible. He knows he needs a bath, and his eyes are bloodshot. Perhaps Theron and Brightwing will think Lady Neeluu had to wrangle him back, or that she’d caught him fleeing and bewitched him. They don’t know Neeluu the way he does. They hadn’t known Kael the way he had either. The way he thought he had.

He can’t think about Kael again.

He takes one last look at Kael’s grave and then looks away. “Plantains sound nice,” he agrees tiredly, and Neeluu beams at him. He doesn't know how she can still smile when he himself feels like screaming.

“They do, don’t they? We got them from Tel Abim.” She is cheerful but not overtly so, and together they get to their feet. She’s gently letting go of her handful of dirt and is now wiping her hand on her robes, sprinkled with soil and packed at the knees. His own robes are ghastly and he won’t be sorry later when he shrugs them off. (He thinks maybe he'll burn them. He's read about people in their grief who rage and destroy, but he doesn't know if he can even manage to call a spark to his tired fingertips. Maybe he won't burn them.)

A Dawnblade holds the reins of Neeluu’s hawkstrider, a stately purple-plumed hen. Rommath does not look as she mounts, instead fetches his own hawkstrider. He pretends he does not remember that Neeluu’s bird was a gift from Kael. He pretends he does not remember visiting the stable for Kael and choosing that very same bird, paying her breeder a small fortune for the pedigree. _Nothing but the best_ , Kael had instructed him, and Rommath had hummed his agreement. (King Anasterian had asked his opinion on the match when her father, the previous Warden, had approached him, and Rommath had told the king truthfully he’d thought they were good together. The Prince of Quel’Thalas and the Light of Dawn. Rommath had felt sick at the thought and did not listen when Kael recounted later Neeluu's joy at his gift.)

The Scourge had put an end to any betrothal talk. Neeluu’s father and older brother had been killed at the last stand on Quel’Danas. Neeluu is no longer the Light of Dawn, free to do as she pleases, but the Warden of the Sunwell, her life now as narrowed as Kael’s had once been. Rommath feels almost sorry for her. Almost, if he could feel anything at all.

The ride back to the Warden’s estate takes less than forty minutes, Quel’Danas not being a large isle. Rommath allows Neeluu to serve him a bit of honeyed bread and fried plantains, and he even manages to eat a good deal of it. He puts in an appearance with Theron and Brightwing ﹣ they seem like they’ve been arguing, and when they quiet immediately in his presence he knows their spat concerned him. He icily tells Theron to stop smoking his dratted bloodthistle in the Warden’s home (and he says _bloodthistle_ like it’s a dirty word) and gives Brightwing a tongue lashing about decorum for _sprawling_ over the Warden’s divan. He speaks cordially with Liadrian about the fate of the blood knights now that M’uru is dead too (though it takes him a minute to remember the naaru's name). And he finally drags himself upstairs to the rooms he’s used since boyhood, peels his soiled robes off, and falls into bed as though falling into the abyss. The abyss being the preferred alternative.

He tells himself he will not think of Kael. He will not remember that Kael’s old rooms are across the hall. He will go to sleep, and if the Void or Death or the Great Dark Beyond claims him, then that will be that. 

* * *

A little after midnight, Rommath is still awake. He thinks everyone else is asleep. Sighing, he pulls himself out of his bed and very quietly lets himself out of his room. 

He stands there. Staring at the door that used to be Kael’s door.

He tells himself he will go downstairs for another fried plantain or slice of honey bread. He tells himself he will slip out onto the veranda and sit in the cool night air. 

He lets himself into the room that used to be Kael’s room. It has been a long time since Kael has used this room. Not since before he left for Outland, and then longer still before that. _Quel’Danas is not an isle for vacations_ , Anasterian had always told Kael sternly. _Quel’Danas is a sacred land for a sacred purpose. Only the Dawnblade and the Warden live there. Vacations are for the south._ (As a southerner, Rommath finds it laughable that anyone would want to vacation there.)

Some of Kael’s effects still litter the room, however. Notebooks filled with his spindly handwriting (all hasty scribbles about the Sunwell and what to do now that it’s gone), a forgotten comb, a silken hair tie. Rommath remembers the messiness in their youth, and the housekeeper forever shouting at him to keep tidy. She was paid to serve the Warden of the Sunwell and his family, not the brat that had been Prince Kael’thas. (A voice in the back of his mind wonders if she’s still working at the estate. Or living, for that matter…) 

Kael’s bed is neatly made, and the urge to crawl into it is so strong that Rommath… 

Well, what’s stopping him now? 

There is no Kael anymore to hold back from. No gossiping servants or students eager to poke their noses where it doesn’t belong. No slew of endless women paraded before him, no Neeluu to upset. So many times, Rommath had let himself into Kael’s apartments in Dalaran, intent on dragging the man from his bed to whatever he was trying to sleep through, only to be stopped by the sight of him, had fought back the urge to give up and crawl between the sheets with him. So many times. Rommath had walked in on Kael sleeping serenely, long platinum hair spread out behind him like a wave. Fitfully, tossing and turning, his face scrunched. To open mouthed snoring and the sheets kicked off, no modesty at all. And, dutiful servant of the king and friend that he was, he would ignore his baser desires and smack his prince with a pillow or splash water on his face and scowl.

He doesn’t have to uphold his vow to Anasterian anymore, to keep Kael’thas in line. He doesn’t need to worry about what Kael would think anymore, if Rommath climbed in his bed. Kael can’t think anything anymore.

Rommath presses his face to the pillow that had been Kael’s. The ache is back, deep inside, and he uses Kael’s pillow to muffle a sob. Kael’s sheets are cool against his skin, and it’s… not enough. For _centuries_ Rommath has wanted to be exactly where he is now, but the bed is cold and there will be no warm body coming to bed with him. No Kael’thas beside him.

By the Sunwell, is this how Brightwing feels? Does Brightwing feel as though his heart has been carved from his body too? That the space remaining is a raw, seething wound? Would it be better for Kael to be undead like Brightwing’s wife than to be truly dead? Rommath doesn’t know. He doesn’t know but he thinks he wins because Brightwing betrayed no one. Rommath betrayed Kael’thas. 

He buries his face in Kael’s pillow once more, the tears hot and shameful on his skin.

  
* * *

When Rommath wakes up, his eyes feel puffy and his throat feels dry and his head feels like the stomping ground for an angry elekk. He is still in Kael’s old room, in Kael’s old bed, his legs twisted in Kael’s old sheets. 

With a groan he sits up, and is immediately assaulted with the image of himself. Of course. He forgot about the mirror on the opposite wall. Even as a child, Kael had been obsessed with beauty (with himself), could never resist staring if he caught his reflection and installed countless mirrors in which to do just that, and Rommath will freely admit (to himself) that Kael’thas Sunstrider was one of the most beautiful elves to ever grace Quel’Thalas. 

The Rommath in the mirror looks awful. His skin is very pale and eyelids pink from weeping. The fel taint makes his bloodshot eyes look almost brown, and his lips have almost no color at all. His hair is spilling from the high tail he’d left it in the night before, and without taking it down Rommath knows more will fall out. He stares at the Rommath in the mirror, who stares back.

“Stop,” he tells himself. “Stop doing this. It’s done now.”

The Rommath in the mirror looks more confident than he feels. He untangles himself from the sheets and makes the bed again, intent on leaving the room the way he’d found it. And then he looks at himself in the mirror once more.

“It’s done now,” he repeats. Carefully, knowing it’ll drain him if he pushes too hard, he applies a glamour to his face. The fel saturating his eyes is difficult to replicate: it changes in shades and intensity every day, but he thinks he’s done a passable job. Those rangers won’t know the difference, at least. 

He lets himself out of Kael’s old room and into his own to change, and strides downstairs armored in temper and fire. He is no longer the Rommath who studied with Prince Kael’thas, the archmage from Dalaran, the boy from Tranquillien. He is the Grand Magister Rommath. He will endure. He always has. 

He needs to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that many things about Quel'Danas are also taken from Warcraft III, including the Sunwell Grove.
> 
> Halduron and his relationship, referenced in one paragraph here, are from the first "Tales from Silvermoon" story, Little Lynx.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sunwell is restored and Rommath is both overjoyed and immensely sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: This chapter has been edited for formatting, tense, and grammar.

He broke his last mana crystal yesterday, inhaling deeply as the magic surged through him, and for the briefest flicker of a moment felt like the Grand Magister he was supposed to be. As quickly as it started it was over, leaving a deep, primal part of him gasping and clawing for more. It left him deeply unsatisfied. It was enough to keep him alive, a mouthful of water for a dying man, and nothing more. He finished his runework with the small infusion the crystal had gifted him, made the appropriate notes in his careful hand, and snarled so fiercely at his apprentice he brought the girl to tears. 

Yesterday seems like a lifetime ago. 

This evening, Rommath creates the Magister’s Portal, a secret spell known only to the Grand Magister and the Warden of the Sunwell. It takes much of his strength, and it is a relief to snap it closed once he, Theron, and Brightwing step through. This evening, they meet with Neeluu, dressed in the scarlet robes and halo of her office, and a delegation of draenei. Rommath is on edge. His exhaustion combined with his misgivings towards the Alliance visit make him irritable, a sentiment shared with the Dawnblade captain ﹣ Tyrael Flamekissed never once takes his eyes off the draenei and stands as close to the Lady Neeluu as he dares, ready at a moment’s notice to draw his sword and lay down his life for her.

This evening, the draenei leader Velen gives them a gift. He has, with seemingly no motive or agenda (Rommath trusts _that_ not at all), given them the “spark” of M’uru (and Rommath understands this to be the naaru’s heart). Rommath watches with apprehension as Velen walks, his hooves echoing in the remnants of the sanctum, where the Sunwell once stood, thinking that the draenei daring to stand where the Sunwell had been was sacrilegious and desecrating this, that very last thing the newly christened blood elves can claim as their own. Theron watches with narrowed eye and furrowed brow, Flamekissed with a hand on the hilt of his sword. Liadrin’s jaw is set, a vein prominent in her neck; she, too, feels violated by a draenei in the remains of their sacred font.

The look on Velen’s face is kind as he lays the naaru’s heart in the puddles of the Sunwell. “My friend,” he says softly, “be you finally at peace. Thank you for your most noble sacrifice.” He hums to himself and to Rommath’s disbelief ﹣ to the disbelief of every blood elf present ﹣ the heart of M’uru _glows_. The clopping of the draenei’s hooves recedes into sloshing as he backs away, the waters of the Sunwell swelling. One of his delegation helps him step out, but no elf is watching him now. The Sunwell shines like liquid fire, its energies shooting upward as they had during the destruction, but the air is _different_.

When Kael destroyed the Sunwell, the air was charged with fel and electricity and wrongness. The upward flaming cyclone felt like it would engulf the sanctum before imploding like its predecessor, like the Well of Eternity whose waters formed it so long ago. Rommath’s eyes grow wide as the air warms around them. He hears Neeluu’s small “ _oh!_ ” beside him, an intake of breath from someone else. His skin tingles. Warmth spreads throughout his body; he feels it in every strand of hair and all the way down to his toes, and deep within the cold, empty recesses of the hungry, primal part of himself that’s been screaming since the Sunwell’s death.

This evening, Velen gives them their lives back. He gives them _the Sunwell back_. Liadrin falls to her knees, tears in her eyes, her lips forming the words “ _I feel it again, it’s back_ ” over and over. Lady Neeluu pushes past them all to collapse at the bank and plunge her hand in the roiling waters. Golden vapors curl around her, and Flamekissed cries, “My Lady!” but Neeluu makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob, her frame outlined in the light of the well, and soon one hand becomes two, and the tears run unchecked down her cheeks.

Rommath feels lightheaded. He feels like his knees will give out. He feels _better_ than he’s ever been, and even the _air_ tastes different. Flamekissed, an elite spellblade, sways on his feet but remains standing, his training likely the only thing preventing him from falling to his knees and just _being_ in the Sunwell’s energies. Even Theron and Brightwing, being rangers unused to relying on magic, are affected: Rommath has never noticed just how pale Brightwing was until he suddenly isn’t, how withdrawn and unhealthy Theron looked until he stands now robust and bright eyed, the bruising and redness peeking past the eyepatch no longer even visible.

Rommath turns to the draenei, feeling almost drunk, and tries to sound wary. “Why?” he manages, unsure of even the expression on his face.

Velen looks at him, at all of them, with large, soulful eyes. “I have experienced the genocide of my people,” he says mournfully. “I could not stand by to witness the destruction of another.”

He speaks softly, but his words echo all the same. Theron speaks first, and Rommath finds he cannot object to the man’s words. 

“You must let us thank you,” the Regent Lord proposes.

Velen smiles. “I need no thanks, young lord,” he demurres, not unkindly.

Theron will not be deterred. “Tomorrow, we shall hold a banquet in the city,” he insists, “for you and your delegation. I cannot allow you to sail home with nothing.”

“Your race’s continued existence is not nothing,” Velen says. “It is one more victory against the Burning Legion.”

Neeluu manages now to pull herself from the Sunwell. She's touched her face, burning faintly with golden light, and the silks of her robes are sodden about the knees and hem. “It is,” she agrees, patting her wet hands on her sides and leaving handprints tinged with the same glow, “which is why we should like to feast the man who made it possible.” She smiles at him, in the same way he smiled at Theron, and the draenei leader chuckles.

“Alright, young one,” he acquiesces. “Tomorrow night then.”

“Wonderful!” Theron cries, and he is very loud. (They are all _so loud_ , weren’t they?) He sees the draenei back to their ship with Brightwing (the same ship that Rommath and Flamekissed shrieked was a declaration of war for its unannounced docking) ﹣ and Rommath knows he needs to go with him. Where the Regent Lord goes, he goes. But he can’t tear himself away from the Sunwell. Logically, he knows he will feel no different whether he is at the Sunwell, the harbor, or Dawnstar Village, but…

His gaze slides to the waters, now calm and lapping peacefully as if moved by unseen tides, still golden and _radiating_ the magic his body has been craving. He can’t leave it. Not right now. He wants to bask in its light. Drink it all in.

He tears his gaze from the font to Liadrin, slightly more composed and sitting properly now. Still drunk from the haze of magical energy, Rommath gently lowers himself to the ground beside her. 

“Lady Liadrin,” he says quietly. She says nothing, her eyes golden in the light of the font. He feels the same ﹣ he wants to sit here and just _breathe_. 

“It’s different,” Liadrin murmurs at last.

“The Sunwell?”

“Mm.” Liadrin’s cheeks are wet, tears flowing freely. She looks healthier than she has in months, but more than that. Rommath can’t place it. “Can you not feel it?”

And Rommath agrees that something is not the same. This is not the _same_ Sunwell, but he can’t think properly, he can’t speak in riddles tonight. He is a dying man before a feast and he only wants to gorge himself on it until he is too full to move.

“ _The Light_.” Liadrin’s voice is a whisper, so soft he isn’t sure he heard her. “ _The Light is back_.” But she say no more and Rommath doesn’t ask, watching the waters lap at the shore, watching Captain Tyrael Flamekissed kneel and Lady Neeluu bless him with the Sunwell’s holy energy, cupped in her hands and then trickling throw his hair. Watches her do the same to Liadrin, who closes her eyes and sighs. Rommath doubts the ritual meant anything, and Neeluu isn’t a priestess to begin with, but the protest dies in his throat as he feels the warm waters touch his scalp, trickle down his face and neck. If the mere energy was exhilarating, the water is _bliss_. He has the briefly sacrilegious thought of _bathing_ in the Sunwell, of submerging his body in the holy waters and allowing its magic to pull to the surface the very essences of his own power, which he hesitantly brushes away as some sort of holy treason. 

Neeluu arranges for an outdoor dinner in the Sunwell Grove. (Rommath hesitates to call it a party, but he supposes it is.) The Dawnblade set up rows of long tables, and their families and the servants of the Warden’s estate bring baskets and hampers and pots of food from Dawnstar Village. Homemade food, tender and warm and filling, though the mages among them can’t help but conjure their own, giddy that they suddenly _can_ , and Brightwing is ecstatic that he can eat as many conjured cakes as he wants without feeling full. There is wine ﹣ much of it conjured, but a great deal of it physical and filling, and it all tastes alike, so that when Rommath thinks he's consumed conjured wine, he finds it is not and he is in fact a great deal more inebriated than he's previously thought. There is singing and laughing and the few children who survived the Scourge are running about shrieking, having not seen such a celebration in all their short lives. 

Neeluu performs the same sort of nonsense ritual with the citizens of Dawnstar Village, who fall into a hush in the sanctum of the Sunwell. Every Dawnblade, every spouse, every child is given the same blessing, the same water trickling over their heads, and they are all as drunk on the Sunwell’s energies as they are on the wine. 

“What is this ceremony?” Theron asks him quietly. Neeluu did the same to him, and to Brightwing, when they returned, and they all stand quietly now behind her, watching.

“Perk of living on Quel’Danas, I suppose,” Rommath mutters. He thinks maybe their ancestors did this at the Sunwell’s creation, seven thousand years ago, but he can’t be sure, and if they had, the first Warden had been a priest anyway. Only the Warden can place their body in the holy waters, so perhaps there is a purpose after all, a more direct means of spreading the Sunwell's power amongst the people. Or perhaps Neeluu is simply giddy.

He feels giddy himself (and _that_ is a strange feeling). He wants to laugh, wants to dance, wants to _sing_. Several of the villagers are doing just that outside, as the music drifts in on the wind. Neeluu knows all of them by name, despite having spent so much of her life away in Dalaran with him and Kael, and she embraces them, kisses the children, laughs and cries with them. Brightwing is on his fourth goblet of wine (that Rommath knows of), and Liadrin is helping some of the Dawnblade with those in need, the elderly and the sick and the children, find nice places to sit close to the shores of the Sunwell, their faces glowing a soft gold in the light.

“I’m so sorry about your family,” one woman is saying, a hand on Neeluu’s arm and another holding a toddler Rommath thinks is too thin. “Selama ashal’an’do to Thalorien.” _Justice for your father and Thalorien._

Neeluu’s smile never wavers as she trickles water first onto the head of the woman, and then onto her child. “Selama ashal’anore,” she replies gently, cupping the child’s face and leaving it glowing faintly with the energy of the font. The child giggles at the feeling. _Justice to our people_. She squeezes the woman’s arm and sees her into the care of one of the Dawnblade, so she and her child can bask close to the bank.

The woman is not the first to say something of the sort. Rommath hears many sentiments expressed, and he knows Warden Dawnseeker was a very kind man in life and is much missed. Her brother, Thalorien, led the last defense of Sunwell Grove, and was murdered in cold blood. They’re still clearing the burned trees and skeletal remains of undead to find his body and give him a proper burial. 

“Thank the Sunwell you were in Dalaran, ma’am.” An elderly elf, not far from Wretched, is clasping Neeluu’s hands in both of his, shaking with the need to consume magic. “Safe in Dalaran.” He nods firmly. “Selama ashal’an’do to bann’da.” _Justice for your father and brother._

Neeluu nods back, pouring water over the old man’s thin hair. “Selama ashal’anore.” Another guard appears and ushers him nearby, his skin taking on a healthier glow by the second.

They’re nearing the end of the villagers now, though Rommath is no longer actively listening. Many wish the new Warden justice for her family, and Neeluu kindly replies for justice for their people. Some speak of the elation they feel, the confusion, the strength. Rommath drains his glass. He isn’t sure anymore if he is drunk from the Sunwell or drunk from the alcohol. The sanctum, even with its destroyed roof open to the sky, suddenly feels too close, too stuffy.

Lady Neeluu elects to stay in the sanctum with the villagers, and Liadrin busies herself tending to the needy. Theron, as Regent Lord, speaks to all who approach him in his easy and upbeat manner, with no regard to decorum ﹣ like the Warden, he settles himself among his people as though birth and station do not matter, asking them questions and listening to their stories. Brightwing slips into the grove sometime after the last child is seen to; he's helping to clear the burned trees and bodies with the guard. The hushed murmurs and quiet sobs close around him, wrapping Rommath in an uncomfortable blanket and smothering him.

He needs air.

He doesn’t pay attention to where he was going. He's harsh to several people, he's sure, for not moving out of his way. His feet take him to the stables, where he borrows a hawkstrider (Dal’dorei, Neeluu’s bird, stretches her long neck over her door and chirrups at him fondly) and trots off for the far side of the isle. It's automatic, and he doesn’t notice until he passes the harbor and the remains of the Magister’s Terrace. 

  
* * *

Kael’s grave is undisturbed, though Rommath doesn’t expect it to be any different. He slides, somewhat gracelessly, from the hawkstrider and stands for several minutes. The ride’s cleared his head somewhat, but now, away from the festivities, far enough that he can’t even hear them… 

Well it's just him and Kael now, isn’t it?

His mouth is dry, and he still feels light headed. He's been drunk with Kael many times. (Not _drunk_ , per se. Kael had been good and properly drunk while Rommath, never trusting himself to become so inebriated, merely sipped at the same glass and told an increasingly sloppy Kael he had drunk more than he had.) He feel he's betraying himself by being here, after telling himself not even a week prior that with Kael gone he has to stop this… this _infatuation_ with the prince. (He is not in love with Kael, he tells himself.) But with the rebirth of the Sunwell, with all that Kael worked for finally realized, Rommath feels he needs to know. Kael is dead and buried, but… if even a whisper of him remains in this place, he needs to know.

“Kael,” Rommath begins, and his voice cracks immediately. This place, Kael’s grave, makes him soft. He's not himself here. (This is what he tells himself, anyway. Merely a residual attachment to the prince he served for the majority of his life. The tears gathering in his eyes are for his country, he tells himself.) “The sin’dorei… The Sunwell…” 

He can’t get the words out. They stick in his throat, behind the sob he refuses to release. He clenches his fists, and his hands shake. 

_The Sunwell is restored, Kael. It’s back._

He feels stronger than he did a week before, but it takes everything in him to remain standing. 

_Your people will recover._

Behind him, the hawkstrider chirps and picks at the grass. Rommath’s eyes burn, from the alcohol or the tears he doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter. Only Kael is here with him, and Kael won’t breathe a word.

_Everything you sacrificed for. We have it back._

His chest heaves, and the ache that the Sunwell didn’t heal, can’t ever heal, radiates through him. He sets his jaw, breathing through flared nostrils as it overwhelms him, hits him as hard as Kael did when Rommath refused him. 

_I wish you could see it. It’s beautiful._

Standing there, in the Grand Magister’s Asylum, seeing the betrayal in his prince’s eyes, Rommath almost felt his resolve waver. And then in a moment it was gone, and Kael was encased in fury, his face twisted in anger, and this was no tantrum of the sort that could be sated with wine or dinners or words. In that moment, gone was the Kael of his childhood, the stubborn prince he’d minded and studied with and laughed with, replaced with this grotesque replica of his image, twisted with hurt and hate. It broke everything in him to raise his hand against Kael ﹣ not in jest, not in a duel, but with intent to injure, to _kill_ …

_I loved you. I love you still._

Kael doesn't reply, and Rommath stands there, fists clenched, chest heaving great silent sobs, for a long time. There is no one around to see except Kael, and Kael will say not a word.

Rommath removes a handkerchief from his pocket and mops his face. It feels better to have something to focus on, and he takes his time folding it, creasing it perfectly and lining the edges up just so. A light breeze blows in off the ocean, drying the remnants of his tears, and when he speaks, his voice wavers only a little.

“Enough,” he tells Kael quietly. “Enough now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neeluu's unnamed father, the previous Warden Dawnseeker, and Neeluu are the only two original characters. Thalorien Dawnseeker is the original wielder of Quel'Danas and I thought it would make sense for this barely touched on NPC to be the son of the Warden of the Sunwell and therefore Neeluu's brother. In addition, Tyrael Flamekissed is the name of a Shattered Sun NPC on Quel'Danas. I loved his name too much and made him Captain of the Dawnblade.
> 
> Reminder that many things about Quel'Danas are also taken from Warcraft III, including the Sunwell Grove.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before the Scourge, several hundred years ago, a young boy named Rommath is accepted to the Royal Academy of Silvermoon, and is given a surprising offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place in the past.

Rommath had not quite wanted to study at the Royal Academy of Silvermoon. He liked being woken in the morning by his siblings piling into his bed and clamoring for attention, and he looked forward to the cook’s hot meals. As the oldest, he often entertained his brothers and sister, keeping them away from the kitchen and out of their father’s study, and in the afternoons, Magister Kaendris tutored him in magic.

His sister showed an affinity for the Light that promised a good priestess once she was of age, but Rommath was the only one in his family to have been called by magic. Magister Kaendris proclaimed him a natural, even as sweat beaded his forehead when he called forth arcane vapors, or his fingertips froze without calling any ice. The theoretical part of magic was easy, Rommath thought, and the papers Magister Kaendris set him flew by, the lectures readily absorbed, but _practical magic_? Rommath felt ashamed at the end of every week as he watched Magister Kaendris enter his father’s study. Surely he was not the prodigy his father wanted. Surely he was only good for parlor tricks, like the fools rented for parties by commoners. An embarrassment for the son of a lord, even one so minor as his father.

“Rommath, it’s getting dark!” 

Sorrem, his youngest brother, stood before him obstinately, his mop of black hair unruly in the twilight. They were in the garden, having been shepherded out by the cook, and his siblings, he saw, were running about catching glow flies. 

“Rommath!” Sorrem said again, stamping his fat little foot and jolting Rommath out of thoughts of Magister Kaendris being dismissed, his father’s anger, and his determination to spend all _night_ if he had to practicing what he had learned today.

He plastered a smile on his face. “Is it?” he said mildly, watching his brother’s face screw up in annoyance. “I was enjoying the glow flies.”

“I don’t _like_ the dark,” Sorrem huffed. His trouser leg was stained with something blue (what on Azeroth had he gotten into?)

“I know you don’t,” Rommath chuckled. He raised his hand － watching his youngest brother out of the corner of his eye － flicked it with practiced ease at the faerie lights hung overhead. They flickered to life, and Sorrem let out a loud _Wow!_ as though he’d never seen such a thing before. (He had, in fact. Nearly every night since Rommath had learned to do it.)

“Say thank you,” his sister scolded. “It’s polite.” A few centuries younger, she was nearly old enough to look after herself, but Rommath enjoyed cajoling her into watching their brothers. Once she started her schooling, she would be spirited away to Silvermoon, or perhaps Quel’Danas, and they would receive only letters and the occasional visit until she became a journeyman. Like him, his sister relished in the time she had with their family. 

“Children!” came the cook’s voice, drowning out any gratitude Sorrem may have been voicing, and soon the cook followed his voice into the garden. “Go wash up for dinner,” he instructed. “Especially you, Sorrem. Your father will want you _clean_ .” He flicked a careless hand at the boy’s stained trousers (and Rommath saw now that an _entire side_ of his brother’s _tunic_ was _also_ blue, and the other two were sharing conspiratorial looks － what _had_ they been doing while he was studying with Kaendris?)

Rommath made to scoop the offender under his arm like a naughty cat when the cook stopped him with a small shake of his head. “Not you,” he said, not unkindly. “Your father wants to see you in his study. Off you go.”

His insides froze. Like the water that he’d tried to freeze earlier this afternoon. He carefully kept his face neutral.

“Did he say why?”

“I don’t ask,” the cook replied over his shoulder, already on his way back to the kitchen. 

His sister had Sorrem on her hip, and three pairs of eyes were staring at him.

“Is Rommath in trouble?” Sorrem whispered. 

“I don’t know,” his sister murmured. She shook her head just then, and smoothed Sorrem's hair. “Of course not,” she said firmly.

“What did you do?” asked Merhean, who so rarely spoke at all. Their father had never summoned any of them to his study. It was out of bounds.

_I’m a terrible student. I’m not going to study with Magister Kaendris anymore. He’s been lying to Father and we’re both in trouble. He’ll make me conjure and see I can’t do it. He’s going to shout._

“Nothing,” Rommath said, more calmly than he felt. “Go get cleaned up. I’ll be right behind you.” He ushered them off, and his sister shot him a worried look over her shoulder as she led their brothers to their rooms.

Dread filled his stomach all the way to his father’s study. He straightened his collar, smoothed back his hair. He took a deep breath and pushed the heavy Amani oak doors open.

His father’s study was large and piled high with books. Rommath knew these were important books, or dangerous books, or highly advanced books, because he was not allowed to read them despite having consumed material far above his level for centuries. A large portrait adorned one wall of Rommath’s grandfather, painted sometime after the Troll Wars. A Kalimdoran carpet lay on the floor. The only furniture in the room was a large desk, also of sturdy Amani oak, and his father’s chair. His father currently sat in that chair, his back straight and his hands steepled upon his desk. His mother, her glossy black hair pulled high off her face, stood to his side, and Magister Kaendris was looking at him in a manner Rommath did not know how to read. Oh, by the Sunwell, what _had_ he done?

“Close the door,” his father ordered, and when Rommath had, his father simply looked at him. There was no place to sit and Rommath dared not make one, so he stood in the center of the room under his father’s eye. If only his father had been a mage, Rommath had often thought, he could have become Grand Magister at once, cleaving dissonance in two with his glare alone.

“Magister Kaendris was just informing me as to your progress, Rommath.” His father’s voice was deep and harsh. It always sounded as if he were angry even when he wasn’t, and Rommath repeated this to himself in his head. “He says you’re very good.”

“Give the boy some credit, sir,” Magister Kaendris chuckled. “I said a great deal more than that.” But Rommath’s father was not the sort to hand out praise like sweets to children and Rommath knew that.

“He has submitted an application in your name for the Royal Academy of Silvermoon,” his father growled, and Rommath felt his disbelief grow. “You were accepted.”

Rommath knew that, as a lord’s son, he had been brought up within a certain level of class. He knew he ought to have manners, that this situation called for bowing to his tutor and gratitude and the ridiculous question put to his father of letting him go (of course he would. Few were accepted into the Royal Academy). Instead, what happened was something like…

“ _How?_ ” Rommath spluttered. He missed his father’s frown, eyes focused as they were on Kaendris. “I can hardly conjure anything! A-and I can’t get frost t-to do anything at all!”

His father’s mouth had settled into a line so thin he no longer had lips. His mother was trying not to laugh. Kaendris, not being of the family, laughed for her.

“Rommath!” he said, placing a hand on Rommath’s shoulder. “Rommath, dear boy! Shock is a very funny thing, but surely it has not booted all your learning from between your ears. We learned this very early on.” 

Rommath felt his ears burn. He _had_ forgotten, but he would not embarrass himself further. He would not give his father a reason to doubt his talent. More reason, anyway. (With the trolls and the Farstriders demanding more of Tranquillien, his father had been very stressed, and Rommath suspected he would lash out and deem the Academy as “one more thing Tranquillien cannot afford.” With all the other “one more things” Tranquillien could not afford.) 

(He tore through his notebooks late into the night, stifling a curse when he found, in his neat handwriting: _The schools of magic are Arcane, Fire, and Frost. It is unusual for a mage to be proficient in more than one school of magic._ The date suggested it was one of the first things Rommath had learned. He thought perhaps Kaendris had severely overestimated his abilities if he had forgotten.)

* * *

Rommath had never been to Silvermoon. His father had many times, to argue with the Convocation for the needs of Tranquillien, but his family was southern-born and southern-bred. The furthest Rommath had ever traveled north was to Goldenmist Village, when they had visited his mother’s sister’s family for Midsummer.

He was in the middle of packing － triple checking his packing, rather. Did he have enough pairs of shoes? Trousers? Smallclothes? Did he have enough parchment and quills and inks? His robes would be supplied by the Academy, of course, but did he have any robes or tunics of his own should he need them? 

He heard the gentle click of his door opening but he did not turn. The housekeeper would beg pardon, his siblings would call his name, his father would cough and announce himself. Only one person slipped in with no word at all, and Rommath had never minded when she did it.

“Which check is this?” his mother asked, a smile curling at her lips, standing somewhere in his vicinity. She wasn’t close enough to be in the way and Rommath allowed her that.

“Third,” he told her. He looked at his list, the list of items of Magister Kaendris had told him to bring and the one he had written himself, and then back to his trunk. He felt, as a lord’s son, that one trunk showed a meager amount of belongings, but he was not going to the Academy to boast his lineage or find a spouse as others undoubtedly would. He was serious about magic. He had told Magister Kaendris he wanted to study in Dalaran one day, and the good magister had told him with a little refining that day may come sooner than he thought.

Tentatively he placed an older theory book in his trunk. It was a good book and had served Rommath well － in fact, it had been the first book he had ever read about magic, once his father learned he’d had an aptitude for it. Before Magister Kaendris had been employed. Kaendris had looked it and chuckled softly, and asked Rommath how he found it. _“I don’t understand some of the words,”_ he had admitted, _“but it is fascinating, and I understand more of why magic works the way it does.”_ (The book had been too advanced for a beginner, and now it was too far behind for him, but the weight of it felt good in his hands, and it reminded Rommath, on the days he felt like he’d accomplished nothing, that before he could throw fireballs, before Magister Kaendris, he had learned on it his own to coax fire into his hand.) 

“You’ve packed your new clothes?” his mother asked. They had gone into town today and had the seamstress take his measurements, and by nightfall, a beautiful set of soft silks, cottons, and woolens had been delivered. Rommath had packed them carefully, still in their brown paper.

“Yes, Mother.”

She watched him for several moments, arms folded tightly around herself and fingers worrying the high collar of her robes. Their housekeeper had replaced countless collars because of this habit, when the fabric became thin and started to fray.

“And you’ve got the coin from your father?”

“Yes.” He showed her where he had hidden it, inside one of his comfortable old shoes. It was enough to tide him over until his father’s letter reached the bank to give him access.

“Good boy.” His mother watched him replace the shoes, and all the things that had been on top of them, before speaking again, her voice soft.

“You know, I always wanted to be a mage.” She was watching him with a smile that reached all the way to her eyes, crinkling them at the corners. “I read all about them, all the things they could do. But I never was any good at magic.” She laughed then, a tinkling sound like wind chimes. “I can barely power a magelight.”

Rommath had stopped his obsessive checks and doubts. He was watching his mother quietly. He’d never known that. He’d always thought himself close with his mother, but he’d never known she’d wanted to be a mage. “Mother…” He found himself reaching for her.

His mother let him hug her, and she wrapped her arms around him. He was nearly as tall as her now. “Now my son is one,” she sniffled, threading her fingers through his short hair. “I am _so proud_ of you. You go to Silvermoon and you be the mage I couldn’t, do you hear me?”

Rommath hugged his mother fiercely, his chin on her shoulder. She smelled like mageroyal and the pure mana perfume from the city, and her arms around him were lithe and strong. By the Sunwell, he would miss her and her hugs. 

“And stop cutting your hair!” she admonished suddenly. “You’re too old to wear it this short!” Rommath laughed and hugged her tighter, and if a teardrop or two fell on her fine silk robe, she said nothing, because she had shed several on his.

“I’ll come back with hair longer than Father’s,” he promised. 

“A real man,” his mother agreed. 

The cook made a breakfast of hotcakes in fruit sauce and coffee and he and the housekeeper hugged Rommath goodbye. (He was glad, in that moment, that he wasn’t the son of some higher lord. Their servants knew him as well as his family, and they were genuinely upset that he was leaving, and he upset to leave them.)

His sister caught him on their sprawling porch, her eyes puffy and red. Rommath thought he might cry just by looking at her － next to his mother, he was closest to his sister. In the time it had taken him to gather his trunk and bring it downstairs, she had burst into tears, which she now tried to hide and which he kindly wouldn’t acknowledge. They stood in silence, staring, but they had only until Magister Kaendris arrived and that was not much time at all. 

It was Rommath who spoke first. He cleared his face － he was the oldest, he had to be strong － and said, “Don’t let Merhean and Sorrem get the best of you. You’re in charge of them now, you know.”

And his sister bit her lip to stop it from trembling.

“You have to be strong. They’re very demanding,” he went on. His eyes stung. “Make sure they keep up with their studies, and you with yours.”

His sister barreled into his arms then and held him so tight he couldn’t breathe. (What a warrior she’d make, if being a priestess fell through.) He regained his breath, and took an extra one, and kept on. “And be sure to tell me when you’re off to school.” He voice had fallen to a murmur, and his hands squeezed her shoulders tight. “Please. I’ll be important in the city then. I can get you into a good dormitory.” He tried to grin, but she wasn’t looking at him so the reassurance was lost.

“Stupid,” his sister muttered into his chest. “You’re not even important here.” 

He laughed. “Which is why they’re sending me away. You have everything under control.” He toyed with a strand of her long hair. “You’ll be done with your schooling long before me. I’ll come home and you’ll be the town’s healer. You’ll make us all proud.”

His sister scoffed and looked up at him then, eyes shining. “You’ll be in the city, far away from Tranquillien and us.” He understood immediately and his expression softened.

“I won’t forget you, Auriel,” he swore. “You or Merhean or Sorrem, our parents, _or_ Tranquillien.”

“You’d better not forget,” Auriel threatened, “or I’ll tell all your mage friends all the embarrassing things you’ve done.”

Rommath opened his mouth to retort, but then was a sound like rushing water, and then a portal opened before them and Magister Kaendris stepped out. He was dressed in robes of deep crimson and gold, with subtle hints of jewelry, and Rommath suddenly felt he’d underdressed.

“Good morning, Rommath!” Kaendris said brightly. “And you as well, my dear girl.” He gave Auriel a silly little mock bow. “I trust you're ready?”

Auriel let him go hastily, pulling her dark hair over her shoulder in the attempt to look neat (though nothing could be done about her eyes). “I’ll get Father,” she mumbled, disappearing inside.

“Nervous?” Magister Kaendris asked, watching Rommath shift his weight from foot to foot. 

“A little,” he admitted.

“I was too. I’d be worried if you weren’t.”

His father appeared, the door blowing open and banging against the side of the house. (Again, Rommath had to remind himself his father always seemed angry even when he wasn’t.) “Leaving now, Magister? Won’t stay for tea?”

Magister Kaendris shook his head. “Afraid I can’t, sir. Lots to do, people to see, and young Rommath to tend to.” He flicked a hand at Rommath’s belongings, which floated lazily over to him and the portal.

His father levied Rommath with a hard stare, and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. Rommath was still not as tall as his father, still had to look up at him. 

“Make me proud, son,” was all his father said. Rommath nodded.

“I will, sir.”

He steeled himself (he had never used a portal before) and approached the portal. Magister Kaendris gestured from him and then towards the portal. “After you, my boy.”

The portal was flat like parchment or a mirror, and it gleamed like a mirror too. It shimmered in the Tranquillien sun, showing a red room and gauzy curtains and people milling about. 

Rommath turned around. His father stood on the porch, his brow furrowed, joined now by his mother, who was pulling at the collar of her robes. His siblings had spilled out of the house as well, Auriel with Sorrem on her hip, one hand firmly on Merhean’s shoulder. The cook and the housekeeper were peeking through the doorway, and when they saw him looking, they waved. 

Rommath hadn’t lied to his sister. He loved Tranquillien. He loved their manor, their garden, the dappled sunlight from the many trees. The grey dragonhawks that made their nests nearby, and the rare pale yellow and pink ones the cook swore the Amani trolls raised. The sharp smell of grass and mushrooms and the calling of the Farstriders as they accompanied merchant carts into town. He knew the north was different. He didn’t know if he’d like it. 

He raised a hand to wave at his family and then turned around and stepped through the portal.

Where he was promptly sick not three minutes later, violently vomiting his breakfast of coffee and hotcakes into a clean chamber pot.

“It’s alright,” a woman was saying, rubbing his back soothingly. “Portal sickness is very common. It’ll be over in a moment.”

Magister Kaendris was looking at him and the woman sheepishly. “I had no idea it was his first time,” he said, hands splayed. The woman shot him a dirty look.

“That’s a lie, Kaendris. What _child_ goes through portals that often?”

“His father, ah, uses portals all the time,” Kaendris stammered.

“His _father_. Not him!”

“Well how was I supposed to know, Narinth?”

Rommath coughed. Instantly, the woman － Narinth － turned back to him. “Here you are, sweets. Drink this,” she cooed. She placed a glass in his hands. “It’ll settle your stomach.” She watched Rommath sniff it (“Smells fruity,” he croaked) and carefully sip at it until it was gone. Then she rounded on Kaendris again.

“You’re lucky I keep a supply of that handy,” she snapped. 

“He’s a southern boy,” Kaendris said dismissively. “He’s supposed to be tough.”

Narinth rolled her eyes and turned back to Rommath. “Don’t you listen to him,” she advised. “He’s an idiot.”

Rommath stared at her, so shocked that someone would insult the great magister that he nearly laughed, until his stomach roiled and reminded why he should not do that. 

“It really _is_ common,” Narinth assured him, helping him to his feet. “The magister here was also ill the first time he took a portal.”

“I was not!” Magister Kaendris gasped, affronted.

“I was there, Kaendris,” Narinth reminded him. To Rommath she whispered loudly, “He was very ill. Got sick down the front of his robes.” She grinned at him, and Rommath felt a little better, if still embarrassed.

“Don’t insult me to my students.” Kaendris attempted to shoot Narinth a withering look, but his ears were too red to have quite the intended effect. “Come along, Rommath. Lots to do.”

Rommath bowed his head. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said to Narinth, who cooed, “Oh this one’s so polite!” before hurrying off after Kaendris, his trunk bobbing along after him.

* * *

Silvermoon was a _large_ city. Rommath had always thought Morningstar, the city nestled in the roots of the great tree Thas’alah in the south, was large, but Morningstar was a village compared to Silvermoon. (He was floored to learn later that they hadn’t even left the Court of the Sun.)

Rommath took time to acclimate to the city. He got lost often. The Magisterium where he lived and studied was the largest building he had ever seen, and Silvermoon boasted far more buildings than that. He donned the blue robes of the order of apprentices and did well. He still needed the map he had drawn of the Court of the Sun, and he could barely hope to find his way much farther than that, but he was excelling in his lessons and had made several friends, and he found it was nice to practice magic with someone besides his tutor.

It had been summer when he arrived in Silvermoon, and before Hallow’s End he had passed his arcanist exam and traded his blue robes for purple. His new friends in his advanced lessons were surprised, and his apprentice friends were envious.

“No one leaves apprenticeship that quickly,” Arcanist Aethas Sunreaver had mused.

“You were rather good,” Arcanist Astalor Bloodsworn had pointed out.

“Not that good.”

Despite being an arcanist, Astalor did not take his lessons with them. Rommath liked the other boy, despite his shy, hesitant manner (in truth, Astalor reminded him of his brother Merhean) and, after taking enough time to confirm that Astalor really never was present, asked Aethas about it.

“Oh, Astalor doesn’t study with us,” Aethas said, in a manner that suggested _it is known_. 

Rommath reached for the rune encyclopedia to continue his paper. “Why? Is he ill?”

Aethas shook his head, his bangs falling into his eyes. He did not look up from his work. “No. He studies privately with someone else.”

“Oh.” Rommath thought Arcanist Astalor must be from a very wealthy family indeed if he had a private instructor in the Magisterium. “Isn’t it better to learn in a group? I wouldn’t have progressed as quickly as I did if I had continued at home.”

“That speaks to the quality of your tutor,” Aethas deflected. And while Rommath didn’t doubt that Magister Kaendris’s methods were perhaps a bit… _dated_ compared to what he was learning in the Magisterium, he thought Kaendris a fine tutor and bristled at the insult.

“I was taught by a _magister_ ,” he informed his friend coldly, and Aethas’s cheeks flamed red as his hair at his misstep. 

“My apologies,” Aethas mumbled, and they continued their runework in silence. Aethas didn’t protest as Rommath kept the encyclopedia to himself － he was terrible with runes － only left blanks in his diagram to be filled in later. 

“His studymate,” Aethas said suddenly. 

Rommath frowned. “What?”

“Astalor’s studymate doesn’t do well in a classroom setting.” His voice was a little strained, and Rommath didn’t think that was quite the truth, but he was still smarting at the insult to Magister Kaendris and said nothing in return. After several minutes, however, he passed Aethas the rune encyclopedia for his sorry diagram.

* * *

Astalor didn’t live in the dormitories with them either, Rommath had noticed. In fact, the only time Astalor was ever reliably around was at meals. Some of the other arcanists would talk to him and some would sneak glances at him. Rommath more than once saw him besieged by women who honestly seemed not at all interested in _him_ specifically. Today he had arrived at their usual lunch spot before Rommath, but not before Aethas, with whom he was deep in conversation.

“－fire to the curtains.”

“Again?”

Astalor put his head down on the table. “At least it wasn’t the bookcase,” he said mournfully. 

“You think Aminel will resign?”

Astalor closed his eyes, his face tight. “If she doesn’t, she’s mad.” Aethas reached over and squeezed Astalor’s shoulder, which seemed to make things worse. “I can’t keep this up, Aethas. I can’t.” 

Rommath sat down, causing them both to jump. He gave no indication he’d heard anything. “Have you seen my copy of _Oculums and Paradigms_? I haven’t been able to find it and I need it for the paper Eredania set us.”

“Y-you can borrow mine,” Aethas stammered.

“You can _have_ mine,” Astalor told the table. “I’m going to off myself. Probably tonight.”

“Don’t say that!” Aethas gasped.

“Thank you,” Rommath told Aethas, his face carefully blank.

“Be sure to write my father.” Astalor seemed on the verge of a nervous breakdown, almost hyperventilating. Perhaps Rommath _should_ acknowledge this? Maybe it wasn’t attention Astalor was seeking, like Sorrem when he ran screaming through the garden.

“J-just one… _one day_. One day without incident,” Astalor huffed.

“Are you alright?” Rommath ventured.

“He’s… he’ll be fine,” Aethas said quickly, an arm around Astalor’s shoulders. “He just needs some sleep.”

“I just need to _smack_ －”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

“Here, let’s get him to his room.” Rommath scrambled up, thoughts of lunch forgotten, and tried to haul Astalor to his feet.

“ _Leave_ him,” Aethas hissed, in the sternest voice Rommath had ever heard. He actually did a double take and when Aethas would not cease his glare, he sat back down.

Astalor did calm eventually, gulping Aethas’s water and then Rommath’s and apologizing profusely (for the water or his… _attack_ , Rommath wasn’t sure). Rommath had a million questions and knew neither of his friends would answer any of them. He wished his sister were here. People had a way of opening up to Auriel’s sweet, friendly face.

“I must be getting back,” Astalor muttered. “I can only imagine the chaos my absence has created.” He smoothed the front of his robes before standing up and smoothing them again. “Sorry to spoil your lunch,” he went on, in more his usual manner. “Bit of fresh air is what I needed. Dinner?”

“Dinner,” Aethas confirmed, and Rommath nodded when Astalor’s eyes fell on him. He watched his friend walk away, stopping to pet one of the Magisterium cats, and didn’t ask Aethas what on Azeroth just happened.

* * *

The Magisterium, full of gossips, jealousies, and busybodies, turned out to be a far better source of information than his two friends. Rommath thought himself above gossiping, but the reminder of Astalor taking such great heaving breaths spurred him to take a walk (just a walk, he told himself) through the garden at night, where the girls who fawned over Astalor liked to sit and gossip about boys and drink wine. (It was a lovely spot to view the sunset, he told himself, and the tree in the foreground had a dragonhawk nest in it. He told himself he was peeking on the nest, because his brothers and sister would be delighted to know that the strange orange dragonhawks of the north possibly also had orange chicks.)

He learned quite a lot that night, some of it useful (the Grand Magister was rumored to be coming back from Quel’Danas), some of it use _less_ (Aldessia had been caught kissing an apprentice named Hathorel), and a little of it to file away for later (the supply store lock). None of it was exactly what he was looking for, and he started to let his mind wander. He still had to practice conjuration (Aethas, who was rather good at it, had promised to help him), and he had another practical exam in casting soon. He was finally beginning to grasp runework spells in practice, though the effects fizzled much like his first attempts at the arcane had. And he had _sworn_ he would let Aethas levitate him, to practice his slow fall. Why he couldn’t throw a book like Rommath had, he didn’t know and he hadn’t asked.

“Excuse me. You there, with the pretty face.”

Rommath blinked, stuck in his head which was filled with to do lists and symbols and orange dragonhawk chicks (they had not hatched yet. He'd checked). Another arcanist was calling him from the garden wall, where she sat with a group of friends. Some of them were giggling and some of them had wine, but she seemed sober enough. (Did she really call him _pretty_?)

“You’re Arcanist Astalor’s friend, aren’t you?” she asked, and several of her friends grinned. (Rommath felt this was a trap of some sort. Kaendris had warned him the Magisterium was full of politics and spies, and to best not get involved in such matters, and Rommath had gone and walked right into it because a boy had cried in front of him. He could kick himself.)

He schooled his face into something akin to steel and said, “Possibly. Who wants to know?” and he felt that was as diplomatic an answer as he could give.

The girl smirked and her friends giggled. “Does he talk about the prince with you?” she asked eagerly. “How they spend their days?”

Rommath had no idea what the fuck she was on about.

“Oh do tell!” cried another girl. “He never tells us anything!”

“What is he like?” asked another, turning so quickly she sloshed her wine into her friend’s lap.

“What Astalor and I speak about is between myself and Astalor,” Rommath said cautiously, to the girls’ chagrin.

“Oh don’t be like Aethas!” one scoffed.

“You can tell us _something_ , right?” 

“Is he going to study in Dalaran? All the best mages go to Dalaran,” someone else chimed in.

“Is Astalor going with him?” yet another put in.

“How can you ask about Astalor over _Prince Kael’thas_?” her friend gasped.

“I just think he’s cute,” she mumbled.

Rommath had never been more confused in his life. “What Astalor tells me about Prince Kael’thas remains between myself and Astalor,” he repeated, and found himself booed out of the garden. _Not that he’d ever told me about Prince Kael’thas in the first place._ Was _that_ who Astalor studied with? 

Prince Kael’thas was rumored to be a prodigy, producing and studying magic since he was very young. Before most elves even manifest magic. To think that _Astalor_ was talented enough to study with him, and _Rommath_ was talented enough to study with _Astalor_ … 

Rommath felt a shiver crawl up his spine. A good kind of shiver.

Why had no one told him? That was fantastic news! Then again, Aethas kept mostly to himself, burying himself in books and speaking to other students only as needed. Rommath could see why now. Aethas didn’t want to be pestered like he himself just had been. Like Rommath, Aethas wanted nothing more than to focus on magic, to learn as much as he could and be among those selected to train in Dalaran. 

Rommath shivered again, and allowed himself to feel excited at his newfound knowledge all the way back to his room. He told himself, as he gathered his books and papers, that he was above gossip, that even though other people knew and talked about such things, he would not. Astalor and Aethas clearly did not want him to know, and Rommath had no desire to find new friends just to _gossip_ with. 

He took his things to Aethas’s room, where Aethas helped him successfully conjure a (small, pocket-sized, really) familiar and scowled when Aethas laughed at it, and he even let the traitor levitate him all the way to the ceiling and slow fall him back down. (Aethas’s nerves got the best of him the first time, and Rommath found himself falling the last three feet to the floor not very slowly at all.) And not once did he tell Aethas that he’d learned the identity of Astalor’s studymate.

* * *

Rommath wanted to disappear. A voice in the back of his head wondered if that was an arcane sort of magic and if Aethas knew how to do it. (He probably did.) He told the voice to shut up.

“Arcanist Rommath?” Magistrix Eredania was looking at him. Aethas was looking at him. _Everyone_ was looking at him. “Must I repeat myself?” 

“No, ma’am. My apologies.” Rommath bowed his head and hoped the red walls did something to hide the flush of his ears. He heard Eredania bark to Aethas to join Nizara and Iruvia’s group as he scurried out into the hall, gossamer curtains trailing in his wake.

 _Grand Magister Belo’vir would like to see Arcanist Rommath in the Sunspire_ , the message had said. It had floated lazily in during the middle of the lesson (Rommath couldn’t even recall at the moment what they’d been doing) to unfurl in front of the magistrix, who huffed, as she’d been in the middle of a demonstration. Rommath had never been to the Sunspire. He’d rarely had reason to leave the Magisterium at all, except on the few times he’d crept into the Bazaar, to access the bank and buy his sister a birthday present. And the _Grand Magister_ wanted to see him! Aethas had been looking at him oddly － it made fear settle in his stomach. What if he’d done something terrible? What if he was being expelled? 

It took Rommath almost fifteen minutes to walk to the Sunspire. He passed a long line of imposing guards at the doors wielding shields as tall as they were. Important magisters worked in the sanctum within, and with his purple arcanist robes, perhaps they thought he was delivering a message. The Sunspire was _massive_ , and he craned his neck to see the ceiling, hundreds of feet above him. To his immediate right was the throne room ( _and the king_ , he thought nervously, smoothing his robes as though the king could see and judge him for every wrinkle) and to the left the Magisters’ Sanctum. Priests had chambers here too, he saw (that would be nice when his sister came, to have her close), but they were not Magisters or part of the Magisterium. 

He wasn’t entirely sure where he was supposed to go. Did the Grand Magister have chambers here in the Magisters’ Sanctum? Somewhere else in the Sunspire? Standing as straight as he could, as befit a lord’s son, Rommath politely asked the nearest mage, who raised a perfectly arched eyebrow at him and sneered haughtily, “ _If_ you have been so summoned, you will find the Grand Magister upstairs, country elf.”

(Rommath was _not_ offended by that. He wasn’t. His father may not be fabulously wealthy like Lord Bloodsworn, or a member of the Convocation of Silvermoon like Lord Sunreaver, but he _was_ a lord, and Rommath _was_ a lord’s son. Tranquillien was not some backwater little village.)

He was definitely not still fuming when he finally found the Grand Magister’s office (and if he was, it was only because the directions were imprecise, he told himself) and rapped on the door harder than was strictly necessary.

“Come in, come in! I thought I’d told Argaron to leave the door open.”

Hesitantly Rommath let himself in. The Grand Magister’s study was open and airy, with a large window on one wall and a bookcase encircling the other. A divan had been placed under the window, a blanket thrown haphazardly over it. A cat was washing its face in the windowsill, its white fur gleaming. A set of comfortable chairs surrounded a large desk made of pale wood (not Amani oak, Rommath thought). Papers lay scattered atop the desk in a manner that made Rommath’s skin itch, and a second cat, this one black, sat pawing at a set of arcane globes drifting softly in some sort of vertical order. No matter how hard the cat batted them, they always came back to their original order.

In the middle of it was Grand Magister Belo’vir, who gently shooed the cat aside to rifle through the sheafs on his desk, muttering to himself. “Now where did I put that, Shan’dor?” He seemed to be talking to the cat he’d just shooed away. The cat, of course, didn’t answer.

(Sunwell and Light help him if he started talking to cats, Rommath thought.)

Having no luck, the Grand Magister gave up. “I’ll find it soon enough, anar’alah belore.” He turned to Rommath. “I must ask that you forgive the state of my office. When I leave, it is always tidy, and when I return, it always seems like a strong wind has blown through. I’ve only returned from Quel’Danas this morning. Please, sit.” He gestured to one of the chairs, though he remained standing. (Likely because sitting would require him to reveal yet again the state of his desk. Rommath was sure he would be more focused on the catastrophe than on the Grand Magister’s words.)

He sat, still confused and a bit in awe. The _Grand Magister_ wanted to see him. He was _sitting in the Grand Magister’s office_. (He was _extremely_ aware the cuff of his robes had singe marks.)

“My boy,” the Grand Magister said after a few minutes, his voice kind, “don’t look so afraid. Nothing is wrong.” As if confirming her master’s words, the black cat chose this moment to meow at Rommath, and the Grand Magister grinned. “See? Shan’dor here would never lie.”

Rommath shrank a little less in his chair. “Grand Magister?” he ventured. “What am I doing here?”

The Grand Magister leaned back against the desk. He seemed… much less stiff than Rommath imagined a Grand Magister being, honestly. “I have heard a great deal about you, young Rommath. I’ve heard you are very bright. _Very_ bright,” he said, eyes twinkling. The black cat jumped onto the chair opposite Rommath and then back onto the desk, where she sat carefully, orange eyes on him. “You are a fire mage, and very advanced for your age. You’re quick to grasp new concepts. Magistrix Eredania has shared some of your work with me, and the eloquence of your writing impresses me, Arcanist Rommath.”

Rommath felt himself coloring under the Grand Magister’s gaze. If he had known those papers would be seen by _the Grand Magister_ , he would have put more effort, more polish into them. He was by no means ashamed of his work, but certainly they could have used another once over?

“You are _humble_.” A smile bled through the Grand Magister’s words. “And you are sensible and tactful.” (Rommath swore the cat was not just looking at him but _watching_ him.) 

“I would like to remove you from Magistrix Eredania’s tutelage.”

Rommath’s eyes widened. “Sir?” 

“I feel your talents would be better nurtured in a different setting,” the Grand Magister continued, “with… _elite_ pupils. An elite instructor, to fast track you to Dalaran.” He leaned closer, and when he smiled, it reached his eyes. “I believe one day you could be a great asset to Quel’Thalas, Arcanist Rommath. If you are trained properly.”

Rommath stared at him. 

(His father’s words echoed in his head. _Make me proud, son._ )

“Th-thank you, sir,” he stammered. “That would be a great honor.” 

The Grand Magister beamed. “Excellent. Take the rest of the day, my boy. I’ll arrange for your things to be moved to your new quarters.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your things, dear boy,” the Grand Magister repeated patiently. “This position will come with a change of scenery. It _necessitates_ it, in fact.”

“Sir?” Rommath wasn’t stupid, but he could not put together a puzzle to which he had only one piece.

“I trust your discretion,” (the black cat’s eyes were truly boring holes into him, Rommath was sure of it) “when I tell you that your new living quarters will be inside the palace itself, and will put you in close proximity with His Highness Prince Kael’thas. In fact, you are to be studying _with_ the prince.”

Rommath couldn’t breathe.

( _Make me proud, son._ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have this headcanon that belf males keep their hair short/belf women keep their hair long when they're young and then grow it out/cut it, based on the hairstyles we see on the NPCs in game (and one solitary boy child belf NPC). Rommath is the equivalent of a teenagerish in this flashback chapter, and his mother thinks he needs to start looking like an adult and let it grow.
> 
> General reminder that some places mentioned in this fic are from Warcraft III. The Royal Academy of Silvermoon and the Magisterium, however, are my own, as is Morningstar.
> 
> Whenever possible I have used the names of actual NPCs from the games. For the magisters and mage students, their names are taken from a list of magisters on gamepedia. Rommath's family's names come from real blood elves in the game. Like many other writers, I see Rommath as having had many siblings.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several hundred years ago, a young Rommath experienced Dalaran. Among other things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally part of Chapter 3, but Chapter 3 was very long so I split it in two. This is Chapter 3, Part 2.
> 
> This chapter is rated a hard T if you know where to look. ;)
> 
> EDIT: This chapter has been edited for formatting.

“You didn’t come to dinner.”

Rommath turned and looked over his shoulder to see Aethas standing in his doorway. He had packed his trunk － just finished, actually － and was waiting for his escort ( _his escort!_ It made him seem so important) to take him back to the Sunspire. 

Aethas stood awkwardly, taking in the empty bookshelf, the stripped bed, the decluttered desk. (Not that there had ever been any _clutter_ to begin with.) 

“Oh. No, I, uh…”

“They asked you, too,” Aethas said flatly. “They want you to study with the prince.”

It wasn’t as if Aethas couldn’t keep a secret. He didn’t gossip about Astalor’s studies. Rommath assumed the Grand Magister knew of his friendship with Aethas, and of Aethas’s with Astalor. (He wasn’t one to run on assumptions… but for some reason, Aethas seemed upset.)

“Yes,” he admitted. “This afternoon.” 

Aethas held one hand on the doorframe, his thumb worrying over the hinge. His fiery hair made his face seem paler, and the dull lighting in the dormitories gave him dark circles under the eyes. “Well. Congratulations,” he said finally, his voice thick.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine.”

Aethas, normally so warm, had quickly become very cold. Like they were strangers. 

“Aethas－”

“Arcanist Rommath?” A guard, dressed in Judgement regalia (these were not the guards who carried those large shields, Rommath remembered), stood behind Aethas, looking for all the world like he had better things to do than escort a mage to the palace.

“I should go,” Aethas said hesitantly. He stepped back into the hallway, a pained expression on his face. “Good luck, Rommath.”

“Aethas, wait.”

Aethas hurried down the hall to his own room, and Rommath’s escort invited himself into the room, blocking Rommath from following. 

“Is this all you have?” the guard asked, indicating to the trunk. Rommath painted his face with indifference.

“I prefer to travel light,” he said. Carefully, he charmed his trunk to float behind him (Aethas had taught him that, he thought sadly) and he followed his escort out of the room, out of the Magisterium, and back to the Sunspire.

That night, laying in his plush bed in a room bigger than his bedroom in Tranquillien, Rommath closed his eyes and thought of Aethas. He thought of Astalor and golden hair and the _talent_ , the _gift_ Astalor had been given, that he could study with Prince Kael’thas. He imagined what Prince Kael’thas would be like. A _prodigy_ , everyone called him. 

He would be studying with a _prodigy_.

* * *

“I don’t want _him_.”

Prince Kael’thas’s eyes were icy as he looked down his nose at Rommath. Took in Rommath’s open book and the notes he had been making on what he should have studied yesterday, had the Grand Magister’s summons not interrupted him. Rommath had been told lessons began promptly at nine in the Small Court, and when his new companion _and_ his tutor failed to appear after ten minutes, he had pulled out a book. It was now forty minutes past nine, and the prince had only just arrived, a magister in tow.

“Where’s Astalor?” the prince demanded. “ _Astalor_ is supposed to be here.”

“I’m afraid Astalor has taken ill, Your Highness,” the magister told him. “He is recovering in bed.”

“Then lessons are cancelled.” Prince Kael’thas spun on his heel, away from Rommath. “Call one of the servants. I wish to have my hawkstrider saddled. No! I think I shall spend my newfound time off luxuriating in the bath. Have someone draw me a bath.”

“You cannot cancel your studies, Your Highness.” This seemed to be an ongoing issue. 

The prince glared at him. “I can. I am your prince. Astalor is not here and I do not wish to study without him.”

The magister was pinching very hard at the bridge of his nose. He let out a deep breath before speaking. “You have a duty to your new studymate,” he said through forced calm.

Prince Kael’thas’s eyes looked from Rommath to the magister. He frowned, and when he spoke, his voice was rising. “And I told you, Dath’omere: I don’t. Want. Him. I _want_. Astalor.” Rommath could see the outline of fire licking the prince’s hands where he had clenched them. 

(Rommath sensed there was about to be a screaming match, and unlike his siblings, the combatants now could throw fire.)

“It’s alright.” He turned in his chair, keeping his gaze on the magister. “Magister Dath’omere, it’s fine. I can work through any hardship.”

Magister Dath’omere looked surprised and then grateful as the flames dissipated. Nothing would burn (yet). 

“Should we start then?” Rommath asked mildly, turning back around. After a moment, Magister Dath’omere sighed and resigned himself to teaching his one willing pupil, listening as Rommath explained what he had been learning so as to judge how to integrate him into the prince’s studies. It was decided they should start work on the arcane (as it turned out, neither Prince Kael’thas nor Astalor had any aptitude for frost magic) and Magister Dath’omere had turned to peruse the shelves for the book the prince and Astalor had been using when the prince stomped back and flopped into the seat next to Rommath.

(Rommath carefully kept his face blank, taking notes on the few things Dath’omere had mentioned that he had not known. He felt the prince watching him and focused very hard on writing.)

“Prince Kael’thas, I see you’ve decided to join us,” Dath’omere grumbled. (He actually had been looking forward, in those few minutes, to a nice afternoon with a quiet student.) The book in his hand became two as he handed the enchanted copies to each boy.

The prince just looked at it. “I don’t need this,” he scoffed, tossing the book to the floor.

“Why? Can’t read?” The remark slipped from him quickly. This was not part of his attempt to help a beleaguered magister. It was just the sort of blank-faced, sarcastic comment he’d make to his cook or the housekeeper when they muttered under their breaths, or to his sister when she bemoaned some trivial problem. It wasn’t something one said to _the Prince of Quel’Thalas_.

Prince Kael’thas glared at him. “Of course I can read!” he snarled. He threw out his arm and the book flew straight into his hand. He slammed it down on the desk and scowled. “Well are you teaching or not, Dath’omere?!”

(It took great effort to keep his jaw off the floor. Prince Kael’thas had _such_ mastery in the arcane already… is what he told himself. It was partly true, at least.)

It went on like this for the rest of the week. Astalor rejoined them at the beginning of the next, a little more color in his cheeks. He had suffered that nervous breakdown (and here Rommath felt ashamed he hadn’t so much as asked where Astalor’s room was, so that he could have seen him. He was sure the prince had), but he seemed much better for the rest. He called the prince by name, and once it was said, the prince insisted Rommath do so as well.

(It felt weird and oddly heretical. Rommath let the name roll around his tongue. _Kael’thas. Kael’thas. Kael’thas._ Oh, that was nice.)

“Dath’omere’s been having us do summoning,” Kael’thas informed Astalor. “Rommath is terrible at it.”

Astalor chuckled wearily. “I am too.”

“You taught me,” Rommath reminded him. “You’re better at it than I am.”

“I’ve been in bed for a week, Rommath,” Astalor scoffed. “I doubt I could summon this quill.” He indicated the quill not six inches from his hand.

“You need practice,” Rommath told him. “I’ll come to your room after dinner?”

“You can’t practice without me,” Kael’thas interjected angrily. “You can’t.” Kael’thas was clearly not a man used to staying silent, and the idea of the two of them doing something _without_ him seemed to have struck a nerve.

“But Kael’thas,” Rommath said evenly, “you’re the best out of all of us. Surely _you_ don’t need extra practice.”

Kael’thas stared at him, nostrils flared. (Rommath was right, and to claiming otherwise would mean Kael’thas admitting that he was petty or jealous or some other such childish emotion. Beside him, Astalor seemed to breathe a sigh of relief upon realizing that Kael’thas was not going to scream.)

* * *

“You just have to ignore him,” Rommath told Astalor later. They were throwing discs in the gardens and summoning them back.

Astalor stared at him. “How can you… Are you really… _Ignore?_ ” he spluttered. “H-he’s our prince!”

“He is,” Rommath agreed. “But when my brothers throw a tantrum, I don’t give them a toy and sweets. I ignore them until they scream themselves out.” He jumped up to catch one of his discs － he’d put a bit too much power into summoning it back － and grinned as his fingers closed around it. “He just wants attention.”

“He _gets_ attention!” Astalor protested.

“They’re all just afraid to say no to him.” Rommath tossed the disc away again. “But Astalor, he’s not the king yet. He can’t do anything to us.” (That was absolutely a lie. Kael’thas had gotten many of his tutors, maids, and other household staff sacked, and Rommath was petrified that one wrong move would send him home in disgrace to Tranquillien. But… he seemed to enjoy trying to get a rise out of Rommath. And despite the frustration of dealing with someone his sister’s age who was absolutely a nightmare most of the time, Rommath found that he... sort of liked Kael’thas.)

When Rommath was alone, his mind wandered. Sometimes he had finished all the work Dath’omere had given them, and read all the reading, written all the letters to his family, and had nothing really to do, and his mind would wander. In the Magisterium, it would always inevitably stray to Aethas before settling on Astalor － tall, lanky, mysterious Astalor, who until recently had been such an enigma. Astalor with his golden hair and shy smile and eyes the color of the sky at noon. Lately, he found himself thinking of someone else blonde. Long blonde hair spilling onto his desk as Kael’thas nosily peeked at his work. A lighter blonde, not gold like Astalor’s, and in the sun it shone almost white. Long, slender fingers tucking his white-blonde hair behind delicate ears. Those same fingers enclosed over his wrist when Rommath had covered his work from prying eyes, and the frown flickering over that beautiful face before he sat back, tapping his quill thoughtfully to his chin, and started scribbling furiously on parchment. 

Rommath would always hastily pull himself out of these moments. He felt furious and ashamed and slightly treasonous. Surely if anyone of importance were to walk by him in these moments, they would see these thoughts like a beacon at sea, and he would be packed up and pushed through a portal immediately. One did not think about the Prince of Quel’Thalas in… such manner. _Servants_ had been sent home for less. (He would know. Kael’thas delighted in telling him whenever a servant had been caught inappropriately with him.)

He took to writing letters when this happened. He wasn’t disciplined in writing letters, his mother lamented, and he honestly did mean to send them. 

But when they started piling up two and three and four a day, and most of them were nonsense because he couldn’t think of what to say when he wrote so much, he started collecting them all in the top drawer of his desk. And when his drawer became full, and he counted how many letters he’d written, he flushed with shame and burnt them all.

(Astalor had asked him if he’d had a fever not long after, his face still red, and Rommath had choked on his wine so horribly they’d actually had to call a healer.)

* * *

Magister Dath’omere taught them for two hundred years and ninety-four days. He resigned in the spring with little warning, and not long after, they were summoned to Grand Magister Belo’vir’s private office. This room was located within the Spire, not the Magisters’ Sanctum, and when they arrived, they were all stunned to see not only Belo’vir, but King Anasterian as well. Rommath and Astalor bowed immediately. 

“Stand up, boys, there’s no need,” Belo’vir said gently (and Rommath thought to himself that maybe there was no need for Belo’vir but there was certainly a need for the son of a minor lord to bow before the High King of Quel’Thalas). He was standing, Rommath noticed, while King Anasterian sat at the Grand Magister’s desk. The king wore no crown, nor robes or armor. He was dressed in only a gilded tunic and fine trousers, and yet he still managed to exude power. Even Kael’thas, Rommath noted, was on his best behavior, standing up very straight with bowed head. Rommath decided to follow his example.

“Magister Dath’omere has resigned,” Anasterian began, his voice warm as a summer’s day, “and you three have been left with no tutor.” (His gaze lingered on his son as he said this.) “Belo’vir and I think perhaps it is time we send you to learn in Dalaran from the Kirin Tor. Dath’omere’s departure is surely a sign that we have kept you here long enough.”

If they had only been in front of Belo’vir, there would have been an explosion of questions. Where would they live? Who would teach them? When would they leave? But with the king in the room, Rommath felt he could not ask such things. As if he were questioning the king’s decision rather than simply asking a question. 

Kael’thas, as always, had no such reservations. He asked all these things and more, and to Rommath’s surprise, Anasterian acquiesced. ( _So this is why Kael’thas is such a terror._ Rommath could acknowledge his friend had improved, but when everyone tripped over themselves in an attempt to please him, there was only so much improving to be done.)

They were to live in private apartments paid for by the crown. The Kirin Tor would decide who they apprenticed to (Rommath _knew_ Kael’thas would bristle at being “apprenticed to” someone, and he stamped on the royal foot to prevent the oncoming tantrum. Kael’thas shot venom at him but said nothing). They would leave at the end of the week by portal. 

Kael’thas and Astalor were dismissed. Astalor was already mumbling to himself a list of things he would have to buy or have made for him. Rommath had been asked to stay, and was left alone with Grand Magister Belo’vir and King Anasterian.

And two of Belo’vir’s many cats, Rommath saw. Shan’dor lay sprawled under the desk between Anasterian’s feet, and an old calico named Dorah was watching with only slight interest from an armchair in the corner of the room. (Belo’vir seemed to collect the creatures, Rommath had noted, never being without the company of at least one.)

“Arcanist Rommath.” (He had never imagined the _king_ would say his name!) “You have made quite a name for yourself. Belo’vir tells me you have done quite well since Magister Kaendris brought you to our attention.” Anasterian’s face, so serious only moments ago, had released its tension, and while he did not look quite like his son, Rommath saw many things there that the king had passed on to him.

Rommath bowed his head. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Even I have heard, without Belo’vir’s voice in my ear, whispers about a bright boy from the south. That is impressive, arcanist.”

Rommath bowed his head again. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Anasterian scrubbed a hand over his face, and he suddenly looked very tired. As if the act of touching his face had removed a mask. “I have heard many things from Magister Dath’omere,” the king continued. “And from your dueling instructors, the stable master, the groundskeeper, and my guards.” He paused a moment, and then chuckled. “Even the head of my household staff had something to say, didn’t she, Belo’vir?”

“She had a great many things to say, if I recall.” Belo’vir grinned. “If clean bedrooms won kingdoms, I believe Rommath here would have your crown.” 

“And my son would be the fool. Yes, I know.” Anasterian chuckled, but it seemed a tired joke, not funny anymore. “My son,” he said again, this time to Rommath. “My son should not be in Dalaran. But for his education, his _wider_ education, he needs to go. Do you understand?”

Rommath wished he did. He felt the right answer was yes. “Not exactly, Your Majesty.”

“We all have our vices,” Belo’vir murmured, his hand upon Anasterian’s shoulder. “Yours, Your Majesty, is of the noble sort. The love you have for your son.”

Anasterian sighed but took strength from Belo’vir’s words. What he needed to tell Rommath could only come from him, as far as Rommath could surmise.

“Kael’thas is spoiled.” The admission was blunt, and its bluntness was surprising. “And he is selfish and quick tempered, and he is _indulged_ in Quel’Thalas. I myself am a capital offender.” He fixed Rommath with a steely blue stare. “You though. By every account, you _ignore_ his demands and him, and the most shocking thing is that he _lets_ you. I have noticed a very marked change in attitude in my son in the past century.”

Rommath stood very still. He wasn’t entirely sure why Anasterian was telling him this. He still wasn’t sure he wasn’t being sent home.

“The Kirin Tor will not treat Kael’thas the way he has been treated here,” the king went on. “His princely title will be only a word, and in their eyes, you and he and Astalor are as equal in social standing as any Dalaran citizen. I don’t think he’ll take well to that. Kael’thas is not accustomed to not getting what he wants.” (Rommath agreed with that, and had been privy to many a fit and fiery tantrum.)

“My son needs someone to keep him grounded. Someone who treats him no differently for his title and who has his wellbeing at heart. Someone to keep him out of trouble.” The king did not have to elaborate, and Rommath did not have to visit Dalaran, for Rommath to know what he meant. He had done enough _keeping Kael’thas out of trouble_ the past three hundred years to understand. “Everyone I have spoken to tells me I would be right to ask that of you.”

Rommath’s heart hammered. He knew, of course, that what Anasterian was asking of him was no different than what he was already doing. But to cement it like this, honorbound to not only Kael’thas’s father but to the king of his country… Well that had an entirely different sort of connotation to it. 

He bowed, deeper this time. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I would serve Prince Kael’thas with my life.”

“Good man,” the king said approvingly 

* * *

_Keeping Kael’thas out of trouble_ , while a hobby in Quel’Thalas, became a full time job in Dalaran. Kael'thas found every opportunity to skip his lessons, their study groups, or anything else “important and boring” for things he called _fun_. _Fun_ often involved exploring Dalaran, shopping, harassing the local wildlife, fine dining, and sleeping. And all of these things always involved alcohol. 

“I am a man of good taste,” he’d told Rommath, “and I must taste it all to know what’s good.” 

After a few decades, thankfully, he had mellowed, but now _fun_ had morphed into drinking, sleeping, and sex. Rommath missed the days when he’d had to hunt all over the city for his stupid prince, freezing in a climate to which he was unaccustomed, because the new _fun_ was just so, so much worse. 

He wore a thick mageweave cloak and had wrapped a scarf several times round his neck. His fingers were frozen in his mittens. Blasted Dalaran and their _snow_ , he thought irritably. Whoever thought _snow_ was a necessary weather event? He banged on the door. “Kael!” 

No answer. The brass number stared at him mockingly. “ _Kael’thas!_ ”

He wouldn’t have to do this for Astalor. Astalor woke at dawn and left at first light, the first one in the massive library most mornings. Rommath joined him sometimes, dozing with his face precariously close to his cup of coffee, but mostly he let Astalor be. He wasn’t quite as close to them anymore and he was better for it. Oh, he was still nervous and a strong breeze would bowl him over flat, but Kael’s personality had smothered him. He had made several new friends, and occasionally he would join Rommath and Kael for dinner or coffee, and more occasionally he would join Rommath at home and they would chat or play some new human game Astalor had become enamored with. 

“Kael!” He banged on the door again. “I will drag you out in the snow in your smallclothes if I have to!”

(He hesitated to let himself in. Kael had never given him a key but Rommath had magicked the lock open enough times that Kael would have said something if he minded. The last time he’d been in this situation, storming in had shown him much more of a human girl than he’d wanted to see.)

He was cold. There was snow in his hair and it was melting on his scarf and dripping down his neck. He didn’t know if he had fingers anymore. Fucking Dalaran and its fucking _snow_.

The lock opened with a soft click and Rommath stomped in, careful to keep as much snow as he could outside. Kael deserved to have his floor covered in snow, but Rommath wasn’t an animal.

“I’m coming in!” he called. “You’d better be decent!” He carefully hung his cloak up, and his sodden scarf, and left his snow-covered boots at the door. It wouldn’t do to go traipsing about the apartment in them. There were two bottles of alcohol in the living room (Rommath sniffed ﹣ good Dalaran red, he thought, perhaps two or three years old). “Lightdamnit, you great pain in the ass,” he grumbled. They were going to be late, and Rommath _hated_ being late.

The wineglass lay on the floor of Kael’s bedroom, directly in the path of Rommath’s foot and it was only by sheer luck he did not step on it. Kael, of course, was still in bed, and Rommath expected no less of him.

They were going to miss the lecture on Highborne arcane magic, and Rommath had been looking forward to that for a _month._ Fuming, he snatched the wineglass from its traffic-stopping spot on the floor and filled it to the brim with conjured water. He hoped it tasted like Dalaran water with its nasty metallic tang.

Kael moved in his sleep, throwing his arm over his head, and Rommath froze. His arm was long and golden and gave way to his shoulder and chest and abdomen, which were also golden and covered in fine blonde hair. His breathing was slow and even and Rommath couldn't help but look at him. Just how did the man sleep through all of Rommath’s hammering and screaming? The curve of his neck was achingly exposed, and Rommath _needed_ to brush his white-blonde hair away, so very gently. He very nearly did. He had never touched Kael’thas, not like that. Not… _intimately_ , skin to skin. Rommath was mesmerized by the pulse beating along Kael’s neck, the long, creamy expanse of exposed skin...

He wanted to lick it.

Rommath blinked, startled. The image of him putting his tongue on his prince ﹣ his _tongue_ on his _prince_ ﹣ shocked him out of his reverie. What the fuck was wrong with him? Without ceremony, before he could take that line of thinking any further, he dumped the entire wineglass on Kael’s face.

Kael thrashed. There was shouting, much of it incoherent. The blankets flew everywhere. “What in ﹣ what’s going ﹣ _Rommath?_ ”

“I see you’ve joined the waking world,” Rommath droned. 

“You tried to _drown me!_ ”

“Nonsense. You were like that when I got here.” Rommath turned his back to Kael and began pulling clothing at random from his wardrobe. He tossed them at his prince. “Get dressed. You’ve made us late.”

Kael gaped at him. He needed a bath and a hair brush and probably some strong coffee. Rommath would do a lot of things for his prince, but he drew the line at bathing him. “I’ll buy you coffee. Let’s go.”

“How will coffee make up for my attempted murder?” Kael asked incredulously. 

“It will keep you awake through the lecture.”

He groaned and flopped backwards, thought better of it (probably after hitting the wet spot), and hauled himself out of bed. Rommath was relieved to see he was wearing trousers. “I’m having a bath.”

“A fast bath.”

“A bath that takes as long as I Lightdamned want it to,” Kael grumbled. 

(Rommath did _not_ look as he stumbled, hungover and sleepy, to the washroom. He didn’t. And he most certainly did _not_ think about any of what he’d seen in the morning that night, after he’d locked and secured his front door with not one but three different wards.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why, but as I wrote this I kept hearing Anasterian as Mufasa. 
> 
> I know he doesn't sound like Mufasa.
> 
> My brain wouldn't listen.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Liadrin chewed me out real good for that, if it makes you feel better.”
> 
> “It does, actually.”
> 
> * * *
> 
> The cycle of tragedy keeps spinning in Quel'Thalas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place in the present.
> 
> Also, I believe it was shinyforce who first named Rommath's cat Kim'alah, and as a tribute to them and their amazing works, I have bestowed that name upon Rommath's cat here.
> 
> EDIT: This chapter has been edited for format and tense.

Erindae Firestrider considers herself good at her job, if she's completely honest and unabashed. Though she'd first taken on the duties of the Grand Magister’s apprentice with the hope of close one-on-one tutelage and a handwritten letter of recommendation to a fine academy in Dalaran, Erindae finds, the more she works, that she enjoys her job, all things considered, and maybe studying in Dalaran isn’t something she wants after all.

That isn’t to say that working with Grand Magister Rommath is easy. Oh no. Many a night, Erindae drags herself back to her apartment in Farstriders’ Square and falls into bed without even undressing. Other nights she sleeps on the divan in the office, her immense amount of sensitive paperwork preventing her from leaving. Some nights she just collapses into tears and alcohol (and a good deal many days too, if she's honest). But the benefits far, far outweigh the negatives.

Erindae has nearly unrestricted access to the Magisters’ Sanctum, and two hours daily of intense practical study with the Grand Magister. She is free to take what she needs from the store rooms, provided she logs it all down to the last ounce, and she's amassed an immense position of power over Silvermoon's magisters. The Grand Magister trusts her, as much as that man can trust anyone: she is privy to a great deal of his knowledge of Silvermoon’s secrets and inner workings, and she is paid quite the sum for her continued silence about them. She _can_ afford an apartment in the Court of the Sun, but honestly… that's too close to the good Grand Magister in her off time for her tastes.

(Her association with the Grand Magister nearly cost her her head after Kael’thas’s betrayal, but Erindae hadn't left. She serves the _office_ of the Grand Magister. She is merely apprenticed to the man Rommath.)

Erindae knows immediately when the Grand Magister comes back from Quel’Danas. She leaves him a cup of coffee made with grinds from the south (she’s hoarded several such findings about the office), a blanket on the divan, and a long list (heavily annotated and divided into sections and subsections, as he prefers) of things that had happened, had been done, needed to be done, and needed to be pushed off, in varying states of importance. Order is what the good magister needs, and perhaps a few idiots to yell at. Erindae is sure she can find some idiots.

After several weeks, when all the southern coffee's run out and she’s sent him all the idiots she can find, Erindae is absolutely sure of it. She doesn’t think anyone else has noticed ﹣ who else but she has willingly spent the past seventeen years in such close proximity to him? ﹣ but Grand Magister Rommath is deeply depressed. He comes to work polished and punctual every day, but Erindae can see minute traces of well applied glamours about his eyes, can smell the arcane remains of conjured clothing. The Grand Magister is a well known workaholic but his habits have started bordering on extreme. Erindae is well acquainted with such grief. It's why she pushed herself to become his apprentice: the grueling workload keeps her mind off of what she's lost.

Erindae says nothing to no one, not even the sanctum cats, because that is what she is paid to do. She continues to search for the southernmost coffee she can find, keeps her notes neat, and when Rommath screeches at her, she tries her best to remember that very little of it is actually intended for her.

* * *

The final death tally’s come in. From the Scourge, the exodus to Outland, the defection from Kael’s forces, the losses at Kael’s draenei ship-turned-mana-forge, the Sunwell, and now the destruction of the Magisters' Terrace. Brightwing’s sent a courier with a body count, and an estimate of the bodies they cannot find. Thalorien Dawnseeker is there, of course, labeled _Missing_. The late Warden Dawnseeker has been found, his name in the _Deceased_ column. It took Brightwing eight sheets of parchment, front and back, to list every soul lost on Quel’Danas at the Last Stand at the Sunwell and in the destruction of the Magister’s Terrace. He wrote very small, his letters the terrible scratch of a man used to writing on the go and on any available surface. Rommath sighs and picks up a quill to attempt to make sense of everything. 

His own list, in the end, isn’t much better. Eleven pages but readable, and still going. Rommath’s hand is cramping. He debates leaving the rest for his apprentice to finish, but this is easy work, if tedious, and he’s set her to other tasks besides.

Rommath sips his coffee, long gone cold. The names are starting to blur together. He rubs at his eyes, shakes out his hand, and picks up his quill again. 

_Hanlir… Dalinna… Auriel… Irduil… Rislar… Sorata…_

Wait.

 _Auriel_.

He rubs at his eyes again but the name does not change. Brightwing wrote surnames if he knew them, or hometowns, relatives… 

_Auriel… Tranquillien._

He stares at Brightwing’s death tally. Auriel is not a common name. It can only be… 

All the air leaves him slowly as though he were deflating. By the Sunwell… 

He and his sister were the only ones in their family to survive the Scourge, largely because they weren't in Tranquillien when it happened. He remembers searching through the rubble of Silvermoon for survivors, carefully, ready to burn the undead, and a hand grabbing him from a ruined house. Rommath had spun, fire alive and wild in his hands only to sputter and die in the span of a heartbeat when he realized that the person who had grabbed him was his younger sister Auriel. Her robes were ripped and her hair burnt, but it was undeniably his sister, and when he’d pulled her into a desperate hug, needing to convince himself she was there and real and _alive_ , her skin was warm and solid against his bare arms. Rommath has since counted that chance encounter as one of the best in his life.

Only Brightwing’s list exists right now though, Brightwing’s list with Auriel’s name on it, and Rommath finds he cannot feel a thing. After Kael, he feels nothing at all.

* * *

If his apprentice smells the liquor when she comes for his correspondence, she wisely says nothing. Rommath doesn’t pay her for her lip.

He holds out the correspondence that needs to go out, as always stacked in order of importance, and then holds his cleaned up and legible version of Brightwing’s death count, sealed tightly in a plain envelope. “This one goes directly to Regent Lord Theron.” It goes without saying that if Theron has gone home (he _still_ keeps his quarters in the city rather than the Spire), she is to be sure that envelope finds him.

“Of course, Grand Magister.” She takes the correspondence and the envelope. 

“Anything of importance?” he asks dully. He doesn’t care at the moment, nothing matters right now ( _nothing matters anymore and nothing has mattered since Kael died_ ), but he is still the Grand Magister and he will serve his city until his demise. Which, Sunwell bless him, will hopefully come very soon.

(This is the grief talking. Rommath has never entertained such thoughts before… before all of this. He thinks he shouldn’t put more liquor in his coffee, but his sister is dead and he isn’t sad and at least Special Reserve helps him feel something, sort of.)

His apprentice hums. “We’ve just received a boat from Quel’Danas,” she recounts. “The new Warden has sent us more supplies, and a squadron of Dawnblades this time. The Ranger General wishes to use them to train the city guard.”

Rommath makes a noncommittal noise of interest and sips his coffee. It's still cold but the liquor burns his throat on the way down and with that he can pretend it was at least warm.

“The Blood Matriarch has submitted a request to Regent Lord Theron for permission to travel to Outland and speak with the naaru A’dal in Shattrath.” His apprentice clearly thinks badly of this, if the slight downward turn of her mouth means anything, but not everyone is as skilled at hiding as he.

“There is a new restoration project going on at the West Sanctum,” she continues. There is always a restoration project in the West Sanctum. It had been converted, unofficially, into a research facility for reversing the effects of the Dead Scar. “Magister Umbric has submitted his third request for your review of his work. Between you and me, Grand Magister, I think he’s become married to it. I don’t know the last time he’s left the Magisters’ Sanctum, and he’s got these awful dark bags under his eyes.”

Rommath takes another gulp of coffee, closing his eyes. “Umbric’s personal habits are of no interest to me.”

“And I believe the Regent Lord received a petition today to tear down the statues of Prince Kael’thas,” his apprentice finishes. She's watching him, he knows, and he tries to breathe steadily (in through the nose, out through the mouth, isn’t it?), but inside flares hot and _angry_.

How dare they.

“From whom?” To stop himself from lashing out at his apprentice, he brings his coffee cup to his mouth again. It's bitter, the illicit liquor unappealing.

“Mostly citizens,” his apprentice tells him. “They’re furious about what happened on Quel'Danas. I caught wind of several in the Spire who’ve signed it, or whose family members have.” 

How _dare_ they. 

“For what reason?” Rommath asks his cup icily.

His apprentice hesitates. Kael has been a dodgy subject for as long as they’ve worked together. “Officially because he is no longer ruler of the blood elves. Regent Lord Theron now occupies that position.” She keeps her voice deliberately neutral. 

“And unofficially?” He levies her with a piercing stare. He’s sent subordinates home crying with such a look. 

She shifts uncomfortably. “Unofficially, because they believe he is a traitor, sir,” she says carefully. 

_How dare they._ _How_ ** _dare_** _they!_

After _everything_ Kael did for them. _Everything_ Kael sacrificed for them. They have no idea how hard Kael worked for them, no idea! Kael risked his life to travel to an unknown and destroyed planet, _for them!_ What other king can say he’s done the same? What other king has put himself in harm’s way for his people? They _cheered_ Anasterian, _mourned_ Anasterian, but for his son they give nothing! Again and again, Kael gave himself for the people of Quel’Thalas, gave his Lightdamned _sanity_ for them, and they give him **nothing.**

It takes him a moment to realize his apprentice is speaking to him. The ringing in his ears is too loud.

“﹣your schedule for the next few days. It’s only tentative.” She's placed a paper on his desk. “These appointments cannot be moved, but these are a little more flexible. And over here, I’ve listed several appointments that must be done but have no﹣”

“Thank you. That will be all.” Rommath feels wooden as he forces his hand to bring his coffee to his lips once more. He burns his lips on the steam, and curses himself for allowing his emotions to be laid so bare. His apprentice says nothing, and will say nothing. It's what he pays her for, after all.

His apprentice quickly shuts her mouth. She looks as though she wishes to speak, then thinks the better of it, bowing her head. “Grand Magister,” she says respectfully. Clutching his correspondence, she makes for the door. Rommath pretends to consider the schedule she’s drafted for him until she leaves, his newly warmed coffee steaming gently. 

(Erindae Firestriker winces as she catches the sound of smashing crockery just before the door clicks in its lock and the study’s silencing spell blocks out all noise. She knows it was only a matter of time before the good magister broke down. She went through it, and so had many of the other officials of the Spire. She can only imagine what finally set him off, but years spent in close proximity with the man gave her enough information for her to wager a good guess. If she’d been the betting type. She thinks she'll make a fresh pot of coffee ﹣ she had found a quarter pound of beans from the old Capital City for an indecent amount of gold － and send out the correspondence, and hope she hadn’t been too ambitious in blanketing the more flammable items of the study in a fireproofing spell.)

* * *

Rommath has been listening long enough, noting long enough, observing long enough to know who is at his door before he grants them audience. The Lady Neeluu knocks softly, one two three times, and never enters until given permission, despite her inherent right now to go where she pleases. Halduron Brightwing rarely knocks at all, barging in recklessly as he does in all things and at Rommath’s glare cheekily rapping his knuckles upon a bookshelf or table. His apprentice, rapidly, onetwothreefour, with a jiggle of the handle, an extra layer between herself and Rommath’s temper. The Regent Lord always knocks twice, loud and with purpose, a man accustomed to leadership and announcing his presence. Rommath is used to knocking － the constant assault on his poor office door in the Magisters’ Sanctum or the less frequent, more important knocks at his study door within the Spire. 

So Rommath is not surprised to hear the hesitant _tap… tap… taptap_ ping that would reveal Magister Astalor Bloodsworn, though he is terribly disturbed that this knocking comes at the door to his personal chambers deep within the Sunfury Spire, the living quarters of high ranking officials and out of bounds to the public. Rommath rarely receives visitors in his home, does not want them in his home. The rare few hours he finds to spend here were his and his alone, where he is not one third of an uncertain new government, a possible flight risk of questionable loyalty, where he is bound to nothing and no one and could simply be _Rommath_. The hairs on his neck rise at the thought of someone inviting themselves into the fortress that is his home, and so his gut reaction is to wrench his front door open and snarl fiercely for the magister to leave him alone. 

Except Astalor looks a mess, and the moment the threshold is breached by outside air, it all comes back that his sister is dead, and of course they had told Astalor, and Astalor has every right to come to his home and mourn with him. 

The Lady Liadrin is with him, and in the fog of his… whatever it is (he is not depressed, he tells himself), he notes that this is perhaps only the third time he has ever seen her out of her armor. It strangely unnerves him. “Halduron is an _idiot_ ,” she says as she sits down, which endears her to him. “No tea,” she adds, not unkindly, watching him remember belatedly that he now has _guests_ and has to _entertain_. 

“What… what has he done now?” Rommath finds it hard to speak with Astalor so sullen not four feet away. (Kim’alah, his cat, very generously relinquishes her seat and sits with her eyes squeezed shut and purring contentedly, pressed firmly against the other elf, and Astalor seems to take some comfort from that.)

Liadrin fixes him with her golden stare. She is, perhaps, the only reason he is able to work with Theron, being more sensible and less brutish, but her eyes had always seemed hard to Rommath, the smallest glimpse of the iron pillar at her core. 

Her eyes are hard but her words are not, and she says almost tenderly, “I am truly sorry I allowed him to send you his count before I myself could contact you. It was not right nor fair for you to find out about Auriel that way.”

Rommath feels numb. His sister. His sister is dead. His sister died on Quel’Danas and he had to find out from a crudely-scrawled list. Right. It should have happened as it had, presumably, for Astalor: his sister’s superior should have visited him in person, as she is now, and presented him with… whatever’s left. 

(They had let him walk in on Kael’thas. No one had pulled him aside to offer condolences. No one had told him his prince was dead. Rommath had found that out the hard way too ﹣ arguably a harder way than reading a name from a list.)

“Oh.” 

“Auriel was brilliant until the end,” Liadrin goes on. “I have never seen anyone so vicious on the battlefield as she.” She bridges the small chasm that has opened between them and lays her hand, calloused and bruised, on his. Her own voice trembles the slightest. “I watched her cleave a demon twice her size in two. You would have been proud.”

His father’s words, spoken in another life, shoot to the forefront of his mind. _Make me proud, son._ His sister had arguably done more for the family name than Rommath ever had. She excelled at her studies in the Light, and as a journeyman been assigned to Sunsail Anchorage, where she healed sailors and dock workers. When the Scourge came, she kept her head, ordering people and supplies into all the ships in the harbor before dashing for the city, and after the fall of the Sunwell, offered her services to heal the survivors in body and mind. Rommath often found her up late in the scattered refugee inns and camps, and he remembers the feeling of pride when a girl had tugged his sleeve and implored him, _Please, have you seen the priestess with the dark hair? I don’t feel good and I can’t find her._

Auriel was one of his most vocal supporters for using the naaru M’uru as the power source of the new Blood Knight Order, was one of the first priests to shed her robes for plate and her holy relics for the sword. She was relentless, furious in her righteousness to destroy the Scourge that murdered their family and destroyed their home, often undertaking dangerous missions into the Dead Scar and the infested southlands. She trained new recruits, taught them how to master their fear, and healed with the love that had driven her to the Light in the very first place.

When Kael returned, when he assaulted the Quel’Danas, of course Auriel would have rushed to the isle’s defense. There was nowhere else she _could_ be. Like Rommath, she now lived for her country, its people. She would slaughter a thousand demons to keep them safe. 

( _Make me proud, son._ )

“Thank you.” Rommath’s tone is cool, controlled. He flicks his eyes at Liadrin. “Please, see yourself out.”

Rommath and Liadrin have known each other for several hundred years, and while their work together has never been quite close, it would be an outrageous lie to say she isn’t unfamiliar with the Grand Magister’s brusqueness. Removing her hand, feeling she’s overstepped (she has), she tries again. “Grief makes us feel horrible things,” she says softly. “I myself have been through﹣”

“I appreciate your condolences and thank you for them,” Rommath interrupts. He tries to make his voice kind (though he is absolutely sure he doesn’t succeed. To be kind, one needs to _feel_ , and Rommath doesn’t feel anything anymore). He does appreciate that she chose to deliver this most terrible of news in person, exposed and unarmored, and he even appreciates that she chose to do so in his own home. He will not, however, have Theron’s words parroted to him by the Blood Matriarch. “I wish to speak privately to Astalor.”

Liadrin is watching him with eyes that are more perceptive than she let on, but perhaps she’s satisfied that he wants to talk to _someone_ because she stands. “My apologies again, on Halduron’s behalf.”

Rommath nods and waits for the click of his door closing in its latch, watching Kim’alah letting Astalor thread his fingers through her silky grey fur. With each pass of Astalor’s hand, the anger boils. _Where was he? Why did he let her run off?_

Liadrin is gone and Kim’alah’s purrs echo in the quiet and all Rommath can think as he stares holes in Astalor’s wedding ring is _How could you let her die?_

It shocked him, truth be told, when he learned of his childhood friend’s interest in his sister. How could someone so timid, so meek, stare at Auriel the way he did when she was screaming in a sparring match or furiously slicing a training target? How could his face light up when he’d spy her in the room, instinctively seeking and finding her among so many new paladins? It floored him when he learned that his sister not only knew of but returned Astalor’s feelings. His sister was fire and strength and righteousness, and she had sat before him and confessed (with a look that promised a wicked backhand if he laughed) her feelings for someone who burned low as embers, smoldering and quiet and unassuming. 

Yet Astalor was _happy_ , and Rommath had known him for long enough to know that this was true. Astalor tempered the rage that had been building in Rommath’s sister since the day they’d learned of their family’s deaths. When they asked Rommath his blessing on their marriage, he gave it readily, and the celebration at the Bloodsworn estate was one of the few truly joyous occasions he’d seen since the fall of the Sunwell. 

But Auriel is dead and Astalor is here. Just as it was when Kael died. 

_Why hadn’t he saved Kael? Why didn’t he protect him?_

“Why didn’t you try harder?” The words are sharp, broken things, and he isn’t sure now if he's asking about his sister or about Kael, but Astalor is looking at him with his pale face and red-rimmed eyes and he can’t take them back now.

“What?”

“Where _were_ you?” The anger is reaching its limit. Astalor is his friend. Maybe the only one in all Quel’Thalas now who doesn’t believe he's a traitor and will sell them to the Legion like Kael did. But his sister is dead and Kael is dead and Astalor is here and so infuriatingly, achingly _alive_.

“Fighting, Rommath,” Astalor says slowly. Confusion covers his face like a veil, temporarily erasing his grief. He didn’t come here to be accused, Rommath knows. He came here to mourn over a woman they both loved, but his sister is dead and Kael is dead and all Rommath feels is anger. “I was f-fighting with th-the others…”

“Why didn’t you stop her?!” His eyes bore holes in Astalor now, perhaps even on fire, he doesn’t know or care anymore. _Why didn’t you stop Kael?_ Astalor’s eyes are wide, tears gathering along his lashes. “You knew what she would do! Why didn’t you protect her?!” _I told you what Kael was doing. Why didn’t you help me save him?_

Astalor stares at him. His fists are clenched, the ring biting into his skin. “I… _tried_.” His voice shakes and tears fall and the shame Rommath feels only makes him angrier.

“ _ **You didn’t try hard enough**! _ ” _I couldn’t do it on my own and because of me he’s dead._

His cat is staring at him. (Glaring at him, more like, like Shan’dor used to.) Astalor sits with bowed head, face twisted in pain and cheeks wet, and Rommath knows, he _knows_ he is being unfair. 

Astalor couldn’t have saved Kael, anymore than he could have saved Auriel. Stubborn as dragonhawks, his sister and Kael listened to themselves and no one else. The realization doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Rommath clenches his fists. Insults fly by in his mind all directed at himself. “That was out of line,” he tells Astalor softly, “and I apologize. I’ve found myself… emotional. Since finding out.” (And he tells himself he’s not lying, not exactly, to his friend, because he does not like lying to Astalor.)

Astalor takes several moments to compose himself, and Kim’alah glares at Rommath in the shadow of his side while he does. Rommath thinks he should sit with his friend, perhaps even put an arm around him, but it’s been a long time since they were that close and he isn’t sure he remembers how it goes. A lesser man would insult him, and a lesser man of Astalor’s prowess would certainly set the room ablaze (unlike his study, his apprentice has not fireproofed his home, or even knows where he lives), but Astalor has always been a better man than Rommath. 

“I know you tried,” Rommath tells him, and this time he isn’t talking about Kael. “No one loved my sister more than you.” He offers his friend a clean handkerchief from his own robes.

Astalor smiles tearily at him and takes the handkerchief. “Not even you?” A gentle tease, a small sign that Astalor, sweet Astalor, does not hold Rommath’s words against him.

“Not even me.” And that’s not a lie either, because everything Rommath loved died with Kael, and Rommath doesn’t love anything anymore.

* * *

They held a funeral service on Quel’Danas for the elves who perished in Kael’s attack, and Rommath thinks it appropriate for Auriel to be buried with the brothers and sisters who, like her, had died protecting their people. His sister doesn’t belong only to him. She belongs to all of Quel’Thalas, her name known with all the others who gave their lives. 

Astalor, who he supposes is the Blood Patriarch (though no one calls him that), gives a valiant speech for the lost, and the Lady Liadrin blesses their ashes as they are returned to the earth. (Burning the dead has become the norm after the Scourge. Rommath thinks this appropriate as well, because now his sister is one with _all_ those who had ever lived and died. Saved from the flames, the only part of _Auriel_ left, is his sister's wedding ring, and Rommath holds the ring, too small for his fingers, in his fist for the service.) The Lady Neeluu is present as well with bowed head, though she does not speak. Brightwing stands to his right, and Theron makes a speech, and all in all it's quite lovely. 

Until people begin approaching him. He knows some of them, blood knights who had thrown down their priest robes with his sister for a life by the sword, her friends from the priesthood. The girl who tugged at his sleeve in wake of Silvermoon’s destruction, now a priestess herself because of his sister. He is easily identifiable ﹣ as they grew older, they began to look very much alike ﹣ and every single one of these people wants to tell him about his sister. The lives she saved, the bodies she healed, the souls she mended. It comforts him, a little, to know that in her twelve hundred years, his sister had been a guiding light to so many, a sister to so many who had lost their own.

And yet the anger is back, simmering beneath the surface. Two paladins are recalling how they had joined the order, after watching his sister’s sword sing through the air as she fought Scourge near the Dead Scar. A woman twice his age cries as she tells him how his sister once sat with the sick and dying in the wake of the Scourge invasion, speaking softly to them and holding as many hands as she could. More tell him of the grin that would spread along her face as she watched her recruits become blood knights, of the ferocity and fire in her eyes as she hauled civilians to safety, of the absolute beatings she would dish out in training, only to bring her hands back gently and heal the wounds she had caused. It makes Rommath’s stomach turn.

 _They should have done this for Kael. This is what Kael’s funeral should have been_ . Not some secret ditch dug in an unused corner of the isle, with his cousin, a nobody, and his betrayer to mourn him, but this. Speeches given by the Grand Magister as to his magical prowess, the Regent Lord commending his leadership and sacrifice, the High Priest blessing his remains. The Lady Neeluu being comforted as Astalor is now, and the citizens of Quel’Thalas trading stories and crying in the streets. _This is how it should have been. They mourn these nobodies, and their prince is but an unwanted memory._

Rommath is glad when their group begins to disperse. His teeth hurt from clenching his jaw so tightly. Those who came from the mainland start to make their way towards the Grove and the Sunwell, hoping its healing waters will mend their broken hearts. (Rommath could told them it won’t.) Some of the mourning villagers follow and some trudge back to Dawnstar Village. Liadrin is quietly talking to Astalor, and in the end manages to convince him to return to the requisitioned barracks to rest. Rommath does not want to talk to anyone. This isle used to house such fond memories and in his adulthood has become nothing but a graveyard. He doesn’t know how Neeluu can live here.

The ocean blows in a cool breeze later that night. Quel’Danas can be surprisingly cold in the evenings, and Rommath finds himself wishing he hadn’t elected to sit on the veranda barefooted. Nothing compares to the cold of Dalaran, but the chill makes him wonder if the tips of his toes are still there. He's halfway through a bottle of Telaari Blue (which he thinks too sweet, though Neeluu assures him it “more than” fulfills his request for something strong) and even managed to avoid well wishers the rest of the afternoon. Choosing the deserted veranda instead of the warmth of any room inside sends a clear enough message, Rommath hopes, that he does not wish to be disturbed.

“Oh, hey, there you are.”

Apparently it did not. (Rommath has never genuinely wanted to murder another elf but oh, Halduron Brightwing can change that.)

“What.” Rommath slides his hand to cup his wine glass from underneath, afraid that in his anger he is like as not to snap the stem in two and waste an entire glassful of (admittedly decent) wine in his lap.

Brightwing comes into view, though Rommath does not turn to look at him. He's shucked his armor for a tunic and trousers and, like Rommath, he's also barefoot. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks.” Settling himself into the next chair, Brightwing flashes him a grin. Rommath tells himself that if he murders Brightwing, he will probably (most definitely) be executed. (Perhaps he can convince Theron he had only been doing his civic duty. Saving Quel’Thalas from Brightwing before Brightwing could get them all killed, or something.) He forces himself to take a deep drink from his glass and keep staring at the water, though it's much less relaxing than it was a moment ago.

“Hey, what _is_ that?” Reaching over, Brightwing seizes the bottle of Telaari Blue. He turns it over in his large hands, thumbing the creamy label. The bottle is heavier than expected, made of green sea glass that Brightwing seems to find appealing. Had the cork still been in it, Rommath thinks he’d flip it upside down and knock on it like a bird to a tree trunk. 

“Telaari Blue,” Rommath growls. His attempt at a peaceful (drunken, angry, sullen) night is quickly disappearing, and the likelihood of Brightwing walking away with any part of him burned is rising. 

Brightwing sniffs it, before taking a long pull straight from the bottle and gagging. “Oh, Sunwell, how are you drinking this?” He coughs and puts it back on the table. “I feel like I just drank peacebloom nectar.”

“You’re a savage,” Rommath spits. “Who does that?” He gestures with disgust at the bottle, undoubtedly contaminated now by Brightwing’s saliva. “How do you even know what peacebloom nectar tastes like?”

Brightwing looks at him oddly. “How do you not know?” he asks curiously, the calm to Rommath’s storm. (Homicide is looking more appealing by the second.) He reaches into his tunic and pulls out a pipe, holding it out in a gesture of (what Rommath supposes he means to be) goodwill. 

“No thank you,” Rommath says icily. Brightwing shrugs and lights it and sits quietly for several minutes, the smell of bloodthistle thankfully blowing downwind. (If it blows the other way and into Rommath’s face, he might really kill him.) Rommath grows more furious with each passing moment, every second that Brightwing sits there needling him until he grows blind with rage. He opens his mouth, the inferno inside him threatening to consume him, and then Brightwing speaks.

“I have a sister too.” 

The admission, so out of place and emotional, dulls the fire within. Rommath stares at him, gripping his glass harder than one strictly should, as Brightwing exhales in a hiss of smoke. 

“Her name is Bria.” Rommath's never heard Brightwing speak in anything but obnoxious, deafening excitability, and the intensity of the empathy in his voice is startling. “She’s older than me, and she thinks I’m an idiot.”

Rommath snorts. It's an inelegant noise and serves to break some of the tension inside him. “She and I are in agreement on that, then,” he mutters, and drinks. Brightwing spares him a small grin.

“Yeah. Ask her sometime what she said when I told her I was Ranger General.” The corners of his mouth fall after a moment, and Brightwing sucks on his pipe again. 

“I saw her,” he says, unable to look at Rommath. “Your sister. For my count. I didn’t…” He sucks in a breath, gnawing at his lip. He exhales. “I’d already sent it when I realized. I mean… It wasn’t hard to guess you were her brother, you know? Just… In the moment, so many people…” 

(Rommath remembers. It's hard not to be overwhelmed surrounded by so much death. He remembers creating Silvermoon’s death count before Kael returned from Dalaran. A name, if he knew it. Where they’d been found. The eyes sort of glaze over in the moment and don’t properly record all the details.)

Brightwing turns to him then, and for a moment he actually looks like someone who's lived through the Scourge, like someone who's commanded troops and fought demons and the undead. He looks less like the young, bright-eyed fool Rommath first took him for (and he _is_ young, younger than Rommath) and more like someone who's lost the best parts of his life to a war he never asked to be a part of. He looks like a Ranger General. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, with a simplicity that Rommath has come to expect. Except this time it stands with his unveiled face and there's a whole new weight behind the words. “I would have been devastated and furious if I’d had to find out about Bria from a death count. I should have paid more attention.” 

Rommath can’t feel anything anymore, except fury if he's being generous about it and agony when he's drunk, but if he could feel something, he would feel moved by Brightwing’s honesty. The ranger is speaking from a place so like Rommath’s own, he knows, a painful, primal place deep down that hasn’t stopped screaming and bleeding since that awful day. He keeps it well hidden, with jokes and obstinacy and his _constant whoring_ , but this night, he lets Rommath see his naked face, and in this moment, they are, perhaps, the same.

He drinks from his glass, the firestorm inside him quieted, before meeting Brightwing’s eyes and deadpanning, “I see why your sister thinks you’re an idiot.”

Brightwing stares at him, unsure, until Rommath quirks an elongated eyebrow and a corner of his mouth, and then he grins. Perhaps he thinks Rommath is still angry and that's fine, but the small gesture tells him he's safe from a fireblast to the face. He sits back in his claimed chair, puts the pipe back in his mouth and his feet on the railing, and for his honesty, Rommath does not throw him out, nor does he leave. 

They sit like this for a long time, long after Brightwing’s bloodthistle burns out and the Telaari Blue's been drunk (Rommath shares it, and complains every time Brightwing’s lips touch the rim), and it is truly freezing outside, but Rommath isn't done sitting and Brightwing perhaps will not go in until he does. Rommath is a great deal drunk and greater deal chilled, but he doesn't want to go to inside. Because going inside means speaking to someone, and he cannot risk screaming at them, or it means going to bed, and he can't yet face his bedroom door, just across the hall from Kael’s. 

He can’t go to Kael’s old room again.

(Because it isn't his room anymore, he tells himself, just an empty guest room in the Warden's manor and he should not give rise to rumors of bed hopping. But he knows it's a lie even as he repeats it, over and over, to himself, because he knows if he stands in front of Kael's old door, slips into Kael's old room, he will completely fall apart and he cannot afford to lose himself to the maw of anguish again.)

So he sits on the veranda with his feet tucked under his robes and vaguely wonders how on Azeroth Brightwing isn’t cold.

“It’s horrible, isn’t it?” Brightwing’s voice, soft and bone tired, breaks through the fog of drink and avoidance. “Losing someone you love?” 

And perhaps it's the Telaari Blue, or the conversation they’d had earlier, or perhaps Rommath has well and truly finally lost it, but it doesn’t sound as if Brightwing's talking about sisters. He forces his blurry eyes to look at the other man, but Brightwing isn't looking at him, his own unfocused eyes looking back in the direction of Quel’Thalas.

“Yes,” Rommath murmurs. The ache in his heart is back, or maybe he never managed to soothe it at all. “It is.”

(He finds Astalor in the morning, the both of them having slept badly. Perhaps Astalor didn't want to see him, and that's understandable, but he lets Rommath in all the same, commandeering the use of the cramped closet he and Liadrin use as an office. Perhaps he didn't want to see him, after what Rommath said before, but his eyes go wide when Rommath presses his sister's ring into his hand, the only reminder that he once had a sister. Because Rommath has spent a thousand years with her, and Astalor only eight. Rommath can't gift the centuries of memories to his closest friend, but he tells Astalor some of the best ones, and Astalor listens with wet eyes and rapt attention, his thumb tracing the outline of his wife's wedding ring.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *splays hands in idk fashion* 
> 
> I'm just along for the ride, folks. This story writes itself. 
> 
> * * *
> 
> You all need to know that as I was editing the line in which Rommath refers to Halduron as "obstinate," autocorrect wanted him to be "abstinent," and with the fandom's headcanon that Halduron is a slut, that gave me a good giggle.
> 
> References to Halduron's lost love are from another work of mine, Little Lynx, which is part of the Tales From Silvermoon series. 
> 
> Bria Brightwing is an NPC in-game. Because her name is Brightwing, she's automatically Halduron's sister because logic. Erindae Firestriker is from Hearthstone.
> 
> The amazing shinyforce planted the idea of Lor'themar being related to Kael'thas in my head and you can all pry it from my cold, dead fingers.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rommath isn't the only one who likes blondes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hop in, folks, we're flashing back.
> 
> EDIT: This chapter has been edited for formatting.

As the years passed, Rommath found himself adjusting, however slowly, to the so-called “seasons” of Dalaran (so different and peculiar compared to Quel’Thalas’s eternal spring), and － dare he admit － _liking_ them. Winter was a terrible, bitter time of year, created to weed out the weak and the sick and allow the strong to flourish (of this Rommath was certain) but Kael was taken by the twinkling lights and found beauty in the unspoiled blanket of a fresh snowfall, before the first foot fell upon it. (They both agreed that sitting upon the lap of a dwarf to ask for presents was absurd. There was a Father Winter in Quel’Thalas, of course, but he was an elf and one did not _sit_ on his lap, and one certainly did not _demand_ presents from him, though Kael had tried many a time. Clearly dwarves were much more lax with their children.)

Spring, following closely at winter’s heels, was wretched and windy and fire mages were restricted to the indoors for safety. The springtime did produce the most beautiful blooms, however, hardy little blush-colored buds that grew tightly until the last great snowfall, at which time they would unfurl delicate scalloped petals with long golden stamens. They died quickly, living only a few days in bloom at most, but with Astalor’s help, Rommath was able to enchant several to send home to his mother. (The little bouquet would live for many years on a fine Amani oak table in his mother’s sitting room, the eye immediately drawn to them, so foreign were they amongst the heirloom decor.)

Summer was sweltering and Rommath hated it. He hated the heat, he hated how exposed he felt in the light silks of the Kirin Tor, and he sometimes hated that he had been kissed by fire, his studies leaving him sweaty and exhausted and longing for a soak in a cold bath. But autumn… Rommath rather liked autumn.

Autumn descended on the city suddenly every year, and he often felt he was the only one prepared for it. While he had put away his summer silks, his friends were often shivering well into October, denying that anything was amiss, and he understood then something Magister Kaendris had told him very long ago: _Some of the very most intelligent people haven’t an ounce of common sense._

“Just run back and get your cloak.” 

Kael had insisted on drinking on the terrace of the Legerdemain Lounge. Rommath had insisted they’d needed to study. He found himself studying, drinking coffee (he'd forbidden liquor), on the terrace of the Legerdemain Lounge, watching Kael shiver with narrowed eyes.

“Nonsense,” Kael scoffed, flicking Rommath’s words away dismissively. “It’s much too far for just a _cloak_ , Rommath.” 

Rommath rolled his eyes. “Conjure one then.”

His prince looked at him as though he’d suggested Kael get his life together and be serious for once (something Rommath had, in fact, told him once or twice). 

“What?”

“A cloak is not meant to be worn with this _outfit_ ,” Kael said in shock.

Rommath stared at him. Kael stared back, eyes wide as silver coins. And Rommath burst out laughing.

“You’re an idiot,” he told his prince, chucking his quill in Kael’s direction. Kael grinned cheekily.

“You’ll give me your cloak then.” He threw Rommath’s quill back. 

“I’m not suffering for your thoughtlessness,” Rommath said smoothly, the smile still in place. It was rare for him to be so at ease, even around Kael. (Maybe especially around Kael.) But sometimes his prince was especially ridiculous, so outrageous, that it cracked Rommath’s exterior. Sometimes Kael truly was funny, even in the stupidest ways. Rommath wasn’t like the simpering women of this city, the ones who fawned over him no matter what he said or did. Rommath had known Kael for longer than these humans' grandfathers had been alive. What he felt for his prince far surpassed the infatuation these human children felt. (And they _were_ children, Rommath thought. Hardly sixteen years old, some of them, and their lives were a fifth of the way done.)

“But I’m cold.” Kael was whining now. He was _pouting_ , his plush lower lip turned out, and the grin slipped from Rommath’s face as it arranged itself into a frown and he bent over his notes. 

(He did not think about Kael's lips. He did not think about how soft Kael's lips looked, or how it would be so easy to lean over... He did _not_ think about kissing Kael. He didn't. He was _very_ focused on his studies.)

“You’re a mage,” he muttered. “Conjure a cloak.”

Kael huffed. “I would give you mine.”

“You would not.”

Kael paused. “I would conjure one for you, at least.”

Rommath groaned. At this rate, he would never finish this book, _and_ he’d have to tutor Kael in it.

* * *

“Excuse me? Could you help us? We’re a little lost.”

Rommath looked up, irritated. He had been _trying_ to catch a moment to himself to finish the reading Archmage Isuldria had assigned. (He was indeed going to have to tutor Kael, seeing as the prince had ducked in a shop for “just a sec” an hour ago.) It was fascinating stuff about alchemy, which Kael was horrible at and Rommath quite wonderful (something Kael hated being reminded of), but the new concept they’d studied the other day was over even Rommath’s head and he found himself having to read every sentence twice before comprehending any of it. He thought about telling the girls before him to fuck off, or something equally rude, but one of them was human and Rommath could never tell which humans knew whom, and he could not afford to get on anyone’s bad side. Not if he wanted to leave Dalaran an archmage, a title that held a great deal more weight than Silvermoon's simple magister.

He sighed. “Where are you trying to go?”

The human had blonde hair, cut straight to her shoulders and pushed back to show her curious round ears. Beside her stood an elf, hair as long as his (and his mother had been so pleased at how long it had grown) and just as dark as his as well. It had been the human who had spoken. 

“The Citadel,” she said. “We thought we were going the right way, but I’m afraid we got turned around.”

Rommath was surprised. He had honestly expected he’d be giving directions to a bar this late in the afternoon. “You did. You need to go back up this street,” he told them, pointing, “and turn left. Walk to the cheese shop and turn left again. The Citadel is just past the fountain.” 

The elf beamed at him, and when she spoke, her voice was soft. “Thank you,” she said. 

“Thank you,” the human girl echoed. Rommath nodded and returned to his book.

“See, I knew it was left,” he heard the human saying as they retreated. 

He had gotten halfway down the page when he was interrupted again.

“Rommath?”

Oh, _by the bloody Sunwell_ , could he get no peace? Rommath scowled at Astalor as the other sat beside him. “Yes. Good afternoon,” he droned. “Do please invite yourself to sit down.”

Astalor looked hesitant, as though he’d committed a grievous error. “I uh… I just wanted… that is, if you’re not busy…”

Rommath sighed. Between Kael and Astalor, he could forget about becoming an archmage. “Yes?”

“I’m having trouble with the alchemy reading.” Astalor looked at the book in Rommath’s hands. “You’re rather good at alchemy… Could you… ?”

(Oh, Rommath wanted to smack something. Between _tutoring_ Kael and Astalor, he could forget about becoming an archmage.)

“Yes,” he said, with a great deal less bite than he’d thought. “Just… let me get through it, myself, first. Alright?”

Astalor beamed. “Thanks. I was reading it and nothing was making any sense. You know I’ve never been one for potions and things. That’s always been you and Aethas.” He bit his tongue at the mention of Aethas, peering through his bangs at Rommath, unsure if he'd said something wrong.

Rommath sighed wistfully. “I haven’t spoken to Aethas in a long time,” he told Astalor, and his voice was almost soft. He hadn’t _thought_ of Aethas in… how many centuries? After he had moved to the Sunspire, it had just become… difficult, to leave it. Not because Rommath particularly enjoyed the splendor or because he’d been confined. Astalor certainly never had been. Rommath could have, at any time, left the palace and made his way to the Magisterium as Astalor had on numerous occasions, could have taken his meals with him and Aethas as they’d done before Belo’vir had summoned him. But it had seemed so much more appealing to lunch with Kael in his chambers, his friend’s smug boasting fading into something akin to comfortable conversation. More appealing to play chess in the Small Court, watching with a smile tugging the corners of his mouth as the prince tried his puzzle out how Rommath had beaten him yet again. While Astalor was visiting Aethas, Kael was teaching Rommath (somewhat impatiently) to ride a hawkstrider, his hair gleaming white in the noon sun. (Thank the Sunwell for his bird’s patience and for the passing stablehand.) What _fun_ they’d had on Anasterian’s yearly pilgrimage to Quel’Danas, racing their hawkstriders along the far side of the isle (to the chagrin of the Silvermoon guards and the Dawnblade) with Thalorien Dawnseeker.

It wasn’t so much that Rommath had stopped caring for Aethas but more that he had found he cared _more_ for… 

(Rommath refused to finish that train of thought. It had been centuries since thoughts of pale blonde hair appeared in his dreams, centuries since he’d caught himself idly watching Kael’s lips as he spoke. Centuries since he’d memorized each of Kael’s fingers and wondered, as he laid in bed at night, if they were as talented there as they were in spellcraft. He would not give those thoughts a name.)

“I see he’s still speaking to you.” Rommath tried not to sound interested. “How’s he been?”

“Oh!” Surprise colored Astalor’s face and words. “H-he’s… he’s doing really well! He’s supposed to move here at the end of the week.” 

The pride and happiness in Astalor’s voice was evident, if the grin on his face wasn’t obvious enough. Rommath responded back with a smile of his own. “It’s about time,” he said, though not unkindly. If anyone deserved to study in Dalaran, _the_ world’s center of magical learning, it was Aethas.

Astalor nodded (and Rommath noticed his smile faltered, and became forced, though Astalor said nothing and Rommath didn’t ask). “I’m going to welcome him with a cake,” he confided. “You remember how he loves sweets.”

Rommath wrinkled his nose. “Buy him a bag of sugar,” he advised. “He won’t know the difference.” And Astalor laughed. 

“Most likely not, but cakes have frosting.”

“Put frosting on it then.”

Astalor rolled his eyes, amused. The Astalor Rommath had first met would never have dared do something so callous. Dalaran had done him good, Rommath thought. Hopefully it would do Aethas good as well.

* * *

_Dear Rommath,_

_I pray you’re doing well. I hear Dalaran is doing its “cold” time again. Pity to be you, when Quel’Thalas is yet in everlasting spring. It was so warm yesterday we did nothing at all but splash about in the sea._ ** _Very_** _unholy, if you ask me._

 _I’ve started my schooling. The High Priest specifically asked for me to be sent to Quel’Danas. I am one of only ten others. We live in the Chapel in the Sunwell Grove_ － _have you been there? It is cramped, and I share my room with four others, but it is humbling. You know I have never been around girls my age, or indeed, other girls much at all, and I confess sometimes we stay up past our curfew and gossip. Rommath, I had never realized before how sheltered Mother and Father kept us. Some of us are lords' children, second sons and daughters, born into wealth and privilege; and some of us are commoners from all reaches of the country. And some of us are even penniless, born with hungry bellies never satisfied. But through the Light, we are all the same. We are all just… priests._

 _Quel’Danas is beautiful. I’m sure you have been here many times, with our prince, and thus are by now unimpressed, but every day I wake up and am in awe of my surroundings. It is both so like and so different from Tranquillien. The trees have golden leaves and the fruit trees bare sweet, pink apples. The grass is so soft one could walk barefoot_ － _we could never do such a thing at home, dear brother! The people of Dawnstar Village are so friendly towards us. They offer to help should they ever see us working outside the Grove, and the children are so terribly sweet._

_The Sunwell Warden himself welcomed us to his home (and such a large home, perhaps three times the size of ours) and feasted us. The High Priest and he spoke about each of us in turn, and the Warden asked us a few words about ourselves. I’m afraid I may have stammered when he spoke to me. It is not every day such an important person addresses you! His children were in attendance as well, Thalorien the swordbearer and the Light of Dawn. Thalorien was cheery and charismatic; I confess I could not take my eyes off him. I think all of us girls were enamored with him, and if you tease me for this, I shall thump you. Neeluu was dressed simply, which surprised myself and I think several others, and she was soft-spoken where her brother was loud, the dark to his light. I liked them all very much, and it eases my heart to know that our most holy and sacred Sunwell is safeguarded by the Warden Dawnseeker and by Thalorien after him._

_Our work is challenging, and I find it doubly so the High Priest himself as my instructor. It is not all about praying to the Light, dear brother. Priesthood is about learning humility, kindness, and the value of hard work. It is about love. It is healing not only a person’s body, the physical wounds, but the mental wounds as well. The soul wounds, the High Priest calls them. I pray I will learn to heal these wounds and heal them well. The everyday cuts and scrapes suffered by our brothers were but the smallest step; I must be ready for the first staircase. I do not want to leave anyone I help in pain._

_Do write to me, dear brother! I will reply as often as I am able. I pray that you visit Quel’Danas soon, as it has been too long since I have seen you and I miss you terribly. Perhaps that is selfish, when some of my brothers and sisters of the cloth have no brothers and sisters of blood of their own, but I think, for this one thing, I may be selfish. Just this once._

_I pray for you and Prince Kael’thas, dear brother. I pray for Astalor and his continued health. I promise you I will do well in my studies, and you must do well in yours._

_All my love,_

_Auriel_

* * *

Rommath did not shop. Rommath did not like to shop. When Kael would inevitably disappear from his side, Rommath knew he had ducked into one of Dalaran’s many shops and without pausing to confirm, Rommath would keep on his same path. He would not be dragged into the store. 

(He had made that mistake once. He had learned it was less frustrating to let his prince exhaust himself than to try and pull him out.)

He had never expressed a desire to shop before in his life, had argued very adamantly _against_ shopping, so when Kael chanced upon him in the more… _retail_ section of Dalaran, Rommath jumped a foot in the air and promptly attempted to maim himself using only his mind. (He failed.)

“ _Rommath?_ ” Kael said incredulously. His pale golden hair had been carefully combed and he had finally, wisely, decided that autumn was upon them, wearing a beautiful runecloth cloak in shades of blue nearly the color of his eyes. “What are _you_ doing in the _shopping district?_ ” (Rommath wished at this moment he could lay down and allow the cobblestones of Dalaran to consume him. _Rommath was never here_ , the cobblestones would say.)

“I too have to buy things on occasion,” he managed.

“You always ask _me_ to buy your quills,” Kael reminded him. “Ten inch, fine tipped, and preferably sturdy hardfeather. You don’t like eagle. If possible, in black.” Rommath stared at him. Kael shrugged. “I _do_ pay attention.”

“Why do you remember my quill preferences yet you forget the year Medivh opened the Dark Portal?”

“I have always found history to be terribly boring, Rommath, and you know that.”

“That was a fairly significant, and _recent_ , world event!”

“Psh.” Kael was uninterested. “What, by chance, are you buying today?”

Rommath colored. “Nothing.”

Kael grinned. The amount of teeth in it was concerning. “Dare I say it, are you purchasing a _gift?_ ” Rommath wanted to flee.

“Please leave.”

Kael laughed. “Oh, Rommath! Has it finally happened? Has someone finally caught the eye of my dearest friend?”

(A bolder man than Magister Rommath would have taken the initiative at this. A bolder man would have told Prince Kael’thas then and there that it was _him_ who had caught his eye. A bolder man would have kissed him on the spot, regardless of the many passersby. Rommath was not a bold man.)

Rommath rolled his eyes, adjusting his collar to keep away the autumn chill. (And to hide the color in his cheeks. Which was not there, he told himself.) 

“You must let me help you!” Kael’s eyes _twinkled_. He was actually enjoying this, Rommath noted with dread.

“I don’t need－”

“Yes, you do,” Kael cut in. “You do not give good gifts.” 

Rommath was affronted.

“That isn’t to say I do not appreciate and cherish each and every one of the gifts you have bestowed upon me during the course of our friendship,” Kael continued. “I do, because I know they were chosen with love and you had only the best of intentions.” (Rommath had once seen Kael hurl a beautiful violin, a gift from a lord and a very expensive, rare find from an old human kingdom, across the room because it was “ugly.”) “But they were hideous gifts.” He draped an arm around Rommath’s shoulders. “If you purchase this gift on your own, this woman will never speak to you again.”

“Thank you for your vote of confidence,” he deadpanned. 

“You know I would never lie to you.” 

“But the gift is for my sister.”

Kael blinked. He withdrew his arm and considered Rommath for a moment. “I’m not sure about Dalaran,” he began, “but I do believe that is illegal in Quel’Thalas.”

Rommath groaned. “By the Sunwell…”

“I may be mistaken.”

“You’re an idiot.”

* * *

Kael still insisted on helping, and Rommath found he was glad for it. His sister was a woman now, perhaps admiring of silly things like cosmetics and hair ribbons and jewelry, but over the years her letters had grown increasingly pious. He supposed their father had hired a cleric to instructor her just as he had hired Magister Kaendris, but this made for a frustrating shopping trip. Rommath knew nothing of priests (his father’s family had served in the military, and his mother’s were well-to-do merchants), and even less of the elite order trained by the High Priest himself. He thought superfluous, silly things did not suit Auriel before, and suited her less as a priestess. She would not be allowed fine clothing － one she had donned her priestess robes, she would wear no other.

(Kael had steered him away from Dalaran’s church. “Do not buy her something she likely already has.”)

“Oh!” Kael had cried. He had seized Rommath by the wrist and half dragged him down the street before Rommath could get his bearings. “In here!” And Rommath had to admit, perhaps in just this once instance, _Kael's_ taste for superfluous, silly things had come in handy, allowing him to navigate the shopping district with ease. The shop he’d found himself in must have been where Kael bought his quills, for it was dedicated to all sorts of writing instruments and books. The books were blank and of varying designs. 

“I’m afraid my sister doesn’t keep a diary,” he told Kael regretfully. Kael, staring at an inkwell made of solid mithril, hummed.

“Yes she does,” Kael murmured, distracted. “All priests do.”

Rommath laughed. “And how do you know? Are you a priest now?”

Kael had moved on to an inkwell made of truesilver, inspecting it in the light. “No,” he said, “but I do know the High Priest personally.”

Rommath supposed Kael had a point. 

“On Quel’Danas,” Kael continued, “Vandellor makes them keep a good works book. I’m not sure what that is.” He put the inkwell down. “Sounds like something one would need a diary for, I believe.”

“Most likely it's a book where one records _good works_ ,” Rommath muttered. “You could benefit from one.”

“What are good works?” Kael honestly did not seem to know. Even Rommath knew, and his sister had not even told him.

“Are you… You’re really serious?” ( _T_ _his man is going to lead our country. This beautiful idiot is going to lead our country. By the Sunwell, Anasterian, keep your health for a good long time._ ) Rommath pinched the bridge of his nose. “They’re good deeds. Things that one does for the sake of others,” he explained, with the patience of an older brother explaining to the younger. “A king does many good works. A good king should do more good works than selfish, in an ideal situation.”

Kael nodded in understanding. The door opened behind them, the cool autumn breeze blowing in and ruffling the handprinted sale signs, but Kael stood rigid, lost in thought. (Rommath had started at the sudden cold, and the look on Kael’s face made him uneasy.)

“ _I_ shall keep a good works book!” his prince declared. And wouldn’t that be an empty book indeed, thought Rommath. 

“I shall rescue it from under your bed for my class notes once you’ve forgotten about it,” Rommath promised.

“Now wait a moment!” Kael looked indignant. “My father does good works, does he not? I am to be king someday. I must…” And here Kael looked a little uncomfortable. The sight was so curious that Rommath almost forgot that they were in a shop, that other people were milling about. Kael did not wear uncomfortable well. “I must learn to be selfless sometimes. Isn’t that right? It isn’t something I am accustomed to, or very good at.” 

(Rommath thought vaguely the world must be ending. Or someone had kidnapped his prince and replaced him with a very convincing lookalike. Who was this man with Kael’s voice, admitting Kael’s flaws? Admitting that Kael had a flaw at all?) 

“Why did your sister decide to become a priestess?” Kael asked suddenly. 

Rommath was confused. “She, uh… didn’t, really,” he admitted. “The Light sort of… _chose_ her. That’s what my mother says.” He scratched at his neck. “My sister listened because she wants to help people. Because she loves people, all people.”

Kael nodded, brow furrowed. “Your sister was born to be a priestess then,” he said slowly, “as I was born to be king. As my father was, and his father.” He looked unsure again. “The people love my father. He is a just and good ruler. I hope to become the same when I take the throne. I hope the people will love me as well.”

_I love you now._

The words, so innocent and painfully true, were nearly in his mouth before Rommath swallowed them back. He could not say that. He could not confess such a thing to his prince. Not in the least because Kael would most certainly be expected to marry and produce heirs, but because Rommath could not be so cruel as to force those words, such powerful words, onto his friend as Kael stood before him and confided such insecurities. Admitted he even had them. 

_I do love you._

Kael was always so cocky, so confident. He always believed himself infallible. To hear the nervous tone in his voice, see the twitch in his ears, shook Rommath. He had never truly believed (though he had certainly hoped) his friendship was impacting his prince beyond giving him manners, and yet here Kael stood, blatantly implying it had. Or maybe that fear had always been there, and his terrorism had been the only way to quell it. The gnomes in Dalaran believed in sharing feelings, of talking through anxieties, but elves… didn’t do that.

_Please believe, Kael._

“They will,” Rommath said earnestly. He placed his hand on Kael’s shoulder and squeezed it, trying to say everything he couldn’t with that one touch. Dalaran had been good to them, and he was sure － he _knew_ － one day he would stand proudly as the High Priest placed the Phoenix Crown on his friend’s head, and the people would cheer and scream and cry, and his prince would rise as King Kael’thas Sunstrider, King of Quel’Thalas, Lord of Silvermoon, and Protector of the Sunwell.

“Of course they will.” And as suddenly as it had come, the moment was gone. Kael was smirking, the anxiety wiped clean. “I am, after all, going to be the best ruler in history.”

“How would you know?” Rommath asked dryly, his hand falling to his side. “You don’t read the history books.”

“You can read them for me,” Kael told him delightedly. “Oh! Look! Just there! Did you see?” And he was off like a shot, leaving Rommath bewildered and clutching the diary for his sister. 

(Kael’thas Sunstrider would be the death of him, he told himself as he paid for the diary and a quill. If Rommath wasn’t executed for murdering him, the ways his insides knotted around Kael would surely do him in. He didn’t think his organs were supposed to do that.)

He found Kael outside with two girls (of course he’d left Rommath for women), chatting animatedly.

“There he is!” Kael crowed. “Rommath, look who I found! It’s the Lady Neeluu!” Beside him, in deep purple robes and garbed in a thick woolen cloak, was someone Rommath knew very well. Daughter to the Sunwell Warden, the Lady Neeluu, the Light of Dawn. 

“Oh I thought that was you!” Neeluu turned to her friend, the human girl Rommath had directions to not ten days prior. “Jaina, this is Magister Rommath. He and Prince Kael’thas are dear friends.”

Jaina, looking so much smaller in her fur trimmed cloak, raised an eyebrow. “Such a dear friend he did not recognize you, nor you him?”

Kael laughed. (Rommath knew that laugh. It was the laugh that promised merciless teasing over a bottle of good sparkling apple wine.) “We _have_ been away,” he said gently. “I don’t believe we’ve been to Quel’Danas in....”

“Centuries,” Rommath finished. Sometimes it was easier with humans to leave it at that. When one was specific, he’d noticed humans had a tendency to lose their composure.

“He does look very different,” Neeluu assured her friend. “As do I, I’m sure.”

“That you do.” Kael stroked a lock of Neeluu’s dark hair, a brazen display of affection that made Rommath’s stomach churn. “Rommath, Neeluu was just telling me that her friend here is the Lady Jaina Proudmoore, all the way from Kul Tiras.”

“Is that so.” Rommath spared Jaina the slightest glance, staring as he was as the Light of Dawn. “I thought Kul Tiras produced only tidesages.”

“Oh, I would so like to see a tidesage,” Neeluu said excitedly. 

“You are always welcome in Boralus,” Jaina offered. Clearly they had had this discussion before.

“It’s much too cold to stand about making small talk,” Kael interjected smoothly. “This promises to be a long conversation. I too am interested in Kul Tiras. I’m afraid I have never been.”

“It’s lovely this time of year,” Jaina remarked. “The last of the large ships would be leaving port about now. The biggest galley of the season was off before I left. Brand new, christened, and blessed.”

“Fascinating,” Kael murmured. (Out of the three elves, Neeluu was the only one who stood a chance of understanding any conversation concerning ships, being that Quel’Danas boasted two of them.) “We should all of us have dinner. The restaurants may be a bit full…”

Rommath was going to hit him.

“Perhaps my apartment? I daresay Rommath’s is so tidy it’s like as not to unnerve you,” Kael said. “And he doesn’t like guests anyway.”

Rommath was going to throw fire at him.

Neeluu laughed softly. “I do remember that about him,” she admitted. “ _You_ , now.” She grinned cheekily at Kael. “Is your apartment quite clean enough for dinner?”

Kael laughed and turned to Jaina. “Don’t believe anything she tells you,” he told her playfully. “It’s all lies.”

“So you’re _not_ the prince of Quel’Thalas then?” Jaina asked. Neeluu giggled.

Rommath was going to ignite the entire street.

* * *

_You cannot sleep with the Light of Dawn. You cannot sleep with the Light of Dawn. You cannot sleep with the Light of Dawn. You cannot sl_ －

“Rommath?”

Rommath jerked, disturbed from his mental chanting and glaring daggers at Kael. (Perhaps if he thought hard enough, he would create telepathy. Wouldn’t _that_ be an amazing achievement?) “Yes?”

“Are you alright?” It was that human woman. Jaina. Rommath had gathered, in the two hours before their dinner, that Kul Tiras was ruled by the Proudmoore family, and that Jaina, like Neeluu, was the second child, somewhat free to do as she liked. Rommath did not know much about the Proudmoores or Kul Tiras, only what he had learned in their history lessons. He did not like going into situations blind.

“I’m fine,” he groused. Kael’s personal chef had had the day off, and Kael had made the woman come in to cook. It was a fine meal, even if the reasoning was not to Rommath’s tastes. (Rommath had promised the poor woman tomorrow off, and would deal with Kael personally should he yell at her.)

“You look rather angry,” Jaina said, concerned.

“That’s just his face,” Kael assured her. “He’s fine.” They were eating at the low table in the sitting room, sitting on cushions on the floor. (“I was feasted this way once by a night elf lord,” Kael had boasted. There had been no night elf lord.) Rommath and Kael sat opposite each other, and Neeluu and Jaina also opposite. (The food was also decidedly not kaldorei to go along with the lie. Jaina may not have noticed, but Neeluu had. Rommath had caught her hiding a grin behind her hand more than once.) 

“What brings you to Dalaran, my lady?” Kael asked, and he was talking to Jaina, not Neeluu. It was the first thing he’d asked of her all night. “Surely your tidesages could teach you better.”

Jaina tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. (It was annoying how often humans did that, Rommath decided. Their stubby, rounded ears did not help them hear properly and held neither hair nor headpieces in place. With their short lifespans and tendency to war unnecessarily, Rommath honestly did not understand how the human race had continued to exist.) “I am not a tidesage,” she told him, “though I _can_ move water. My gifts lie with frost.”

Kael was interested. “Ah, so this is why you were with the Lady Neeluu.” 

Neeluu nodded. “The Archmage Antonidas instructs us personally,” she confided, sipping delicately at her glass of Dalaran red.

“That is very impressive indeed,” Rommath put forth, one eyebrow arched. He had always known Neeluu to be a frost mage, and a talented one, but for a _human_ to be so talented at such a young age?

Jaina bowed her head once in gratitude. “Thank you. He requested my presence in Dalaran some years ago － I believe I was eleven? － but my father would not hear of it. He misliked the idea of me so far away.”

_Eleven?!_

“He _requested_ you?” Kael asked, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. “As a child?”

“Isn’t it amazing?” Neeluu gasped. “Jaina has been so wonderful and helpful. I wish I did not hold her back so much.”

Jaina laughed. “Hush,” she chided. “You’re plenty good enough on your own.”

Who _was_ this woman? This human woman from Lightforsaken Kul Tiras whose magical ability was so great _as a child_ that the Kirin Tor had _asked for her personally?_

“Clearly Kul Tiras produces gifted mages,” Rommath said evenly, face blank.

By the end of the meal, Rommath was sick of hearing about Jaina Proudmoore He was sick of watching his prince flirt. He was livid at the informality between Kael and the Lady Neeluu. He waited until both women had gone, the lock clicking in the door, before he spat, “Don’t.”

Kael, eyes sparkling, grinned at him. “Don’t what?”

“You know what.” Rommath finished the last of the wine, swallowing it too quickly and with a good amount of air. He coughed hard.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Even your father can’t save you if you defile the Light of Dawn,” Rommath warned. 

“ _Defile?_ ” Kael _tsk_ ed. “I assure you, not a single one of my lovers has ever been _defiled_ by me.” Kael made a show of inspecting his nails before looking at Rommath again. “But Rommath, really? Were you not sharing the same conversation?”

“Excuse me?”

“J _aina_.” Kael said her name as though it were a song. “She is _captivating_.” He dropped to the floor beside Rommath and pulled his glass from across the table to drink deeply from it. “I think I’m in love.”

(Kael had decided he was in love many times. He always left them shortly after this declaration.)

Rommath rolled his eyes. “What do you even see in humans?” he asked, priding himself at letting only the mildest trace of disgust tinge his words.

“Why do you restrict yourself so?” Kael prodded. “Humans are much less… _inhibited_ than we elves are.”

(Rommath considered himself quite open-minded. He did not exactly let his feelings for his prince impede his romantic life. He was merely… much more _discreet_ with his bedfellows, and the relationships, if a series of romps could be called that, would always invariably end when his frustration that his lover was not Kael had reached its peak. He wondered what, exactly, Kael meant by _less inhibited_ , and wondered what, exactly, his human lovers had done. And then he wondered if human men were also _uninhibited_ in bed and very quickly stopped that thinking in its tracks.)

“I should like to make her my queen,” Kael said dreamily. “Can you see it? Father would be pleased if I came home learned and wed.”

(This was a better subject, Rommath decided. No sordid thoughts of humans and bedroom antics and Kael.) “He would never let you marry a human.”

“And why not?”

“The people would never accept a human queen. The queen of the _elves_ is an _elf_ , Kael.” Rommath drummed his fingers on the table. 

“They would accept her,” his prince pressed. “Neeluu does.”

“Neeluu is but one person. The Light of Dawn has no power,” Rommath reminded him. “The _people_ are what matter.”

Kael frowned. Rommath ignored him. He’d had this conversation before. He would likely have it over the next woman, and the one after that. 

“Neeluu likes her,” Kael muttered.

“Neeluu and Jaina are here to _study_ ,” Rommath reminded him. “As am I. As are _you_.”

Kael groaned. “Must you pour salt on my wounded heart so soon after shattering it?”

Rommath smacked him on the leg, the nearest part of Kael he could reach. “Yes.”

“I should have you hanged,” Kael complained. “Like _humans_ do.”

“Please,” Rommath implored, “if the situation ever arises that you must execute me, kindly do so in any way but that.”

“Poison then,” Kael suggested. Rommath thought for a moment.

“That is acceptable. If _you_ mix it, there’s a fair chance that I may live.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel this chapter isn't quite as cohesive as the others. I had a central idea (Rommath and Kael Watch Jaina & Neeluu's Dalaran Adventure!) but then Astalor wanted some screentime and I couldn't say no (I mean, I literally just killed his wife in the last chapter, I'll give him whatever he wants), and with Astalor came thoughts of Rommath's sister so I thought, what if...? And Auriel, Auriel you goddess, you helped me kick Jaina & Neeluu's Dalaran Adventure! back on track, because without your letter, Rommath and Kael would never have been in that shop, where Kael never would have spotted J&N, where the original idea wouldn't have happened. 
> 
> Rommath was right. His sister does indeed have the gift of getting people to open up.
> 
> *****
> 
> I played with Jaina's canon a bit to make it fit my timeline. (I try not to alter lore too much but I was not about to write Jaina as an eleven year old and I wanted her and Neeluu to be both new and friends.) I also poke fun at the alteration, and at the same time poke fun at just how OMGAWESOME Blizzard made Jaina (originally one of the only women of note).


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rommath gets some fresh air and also there are murlocs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back in the present for some fun in the sun and maybe this time we can hold our murderous rage for murlocs. (You all have no idea how much I fucking hate murlocs, but somehow... no murlocs die in the making of this chapter.)
> 
> EDIT: This chapter was edited for formatting and tense.

Rommath's heard tales of gnomish inventions capable of producing still images of a scene placed before it. He's heard rumors of the gnomes creating clever little machines able to knit such images together, a silent recollection of a time past. He isn’t sure if such creations exist. They seem truly outlandish, an impossibility akin to pulling a memory from one’s mind (a costly but somewhat achievable process, he’s heard) and simply… _stamping_ it upon paper. He doesn’t know if they exist, but he thinks he’d like one. He would have liked one, back then.

Most of the friends he’s made, and their friends and the friends of those friends, are dead now. And the ones that aren’t no longer speak to him. Capernian, Telonicus, Thalorien… Jaina, Aethas, Vereesa… His mentor is mad, the Blue Aspect’s insanity having corrupted her mind. His House is shattered, his family’s ashes buried beneath the sharp grass and tainted soil near the ruins of their home. His sister is dead. 

Good King Anasterian is gone, slain in a battle that never should have happened. An aging, ailing man, he drew the ancient sword Felo’melorn and faced Arthas Menethil in single combat, knowing he could not win, hoping only to stall the army of undead long enough for reinforcements to arrive. And Kael… _Kael…_

Out of all of them, the horror of the mana forges, learning Kael allied with the Burning Legion, the collapse of the Sunwell and the deaths of his friends and the murders of his family and Astalor weeping openly before Auriel’s grave, Kael's death is what had hurts the most. With Kael by his side, perhaps he could manage the other things. They certainly would still hurt him － he's only a man, after all － but everything Rommath loved died with Kael and it's as if every sorrow has collapsed into the maelstrom created in the wake of his prince’s demise. He is only one man and he's drowning in the storm and there is never any reprieve.

The barest swath of light appears near his left eye. It's followed by the barest bit of fuzz before the light disappears, only for both light and fuzz to reappear a moment later. He doesn’t react. Perhaps this time, _this_ morning, everything will have been a horrible dream, if only he keeps his eyes shut tightly enough. He would wake, and find himself back in Dalaran － before Modera had them imprisoned, before Telestra left, back when they were young and ignorant and Rommath’s only concern had been hauling Kael to class － and recant this nightmare to Kael and his friends. Telonicus wouldn’t listen, deep into his latest tinkering project, and Capernian would make a smart remark, Jaina and Neeluu would look at him with wide eyes, their mouths forming little O’s of shock, and Kael… Kael would laugh, in his easygoing way. Say something stupid. _And_ _the Burning Legion is...?_ or something equally ridiculous. And Rommath’s dream would be forgotten as the shouting commenced, the disbelief, the eyerolling, the chuckling. Kael’s way, Rommath knows now, of soothing him, being close to him.

He sighs when he feels soft fur on his face, a soul-weary sigh. He wonders dimly if his sister ever learned to heal wounds of the soul. If she could have healed his. “I’m getting up,” he tells Kim’alah, finally forced to acknowledge her. She's pulled back his sheets, his one barrier from reality, just enough to shove her face against his cheek, and is now purring loudly and insistently. Kim’alah is a good cat. Perhaps one of his best. She knows that something is wrong with him (more than wrong, broken, dying), and in the rare moments Rommath finds he's able to slip home to sleep, Kim’alah will press herself against him, purring all the while.

Rommath reluctantly tears himself from the safety of his bed without disturbing the sheets and stumbles, as he does every day now, to his kitchen to feed his cat. Perhaps, if he didn’t have a cat, only his dedication to his country would force him out of bed every day, and perhaps not even then. 

He applies a glamour to his face as he has every day since Kael’s death, masking the deep, dark circles under his eyes from sleepless nights and the terrible pallor of his skin. He almost walks the few feet to his wardrobe to pull on a fresh robe, but in the end it's too far, his feet are too heavy, and it's just easier to conjure one. His stomach feels empty but his apprentice will more than likely bring him a bit of fruit or bread with his coffee, so he doesn’t bother joining Kim’alah for breakfast. His stomach is a liar anyway. He doesn’t feel particularly hungry.

The man Rommath opens the door to the Spire hall, and the Grand Magister heads towards the Magisters’ Sanctum, wondering dully what sort of nonsense (that he doesn’t care about) he's going to have to sort through today.

* * *

Coffee made in northern Quel’Thalas is terrible. Rommath's held that opinion for most of his life, and with every sip the sentiment only deepens. What he would not give for a decent cup of good, bitter Tranquillien brew. (He's noticed his apprentice’s attempts in procuring southern coffee. He does not want to know how she had manages to secure coffee from the destroyed Capital City or how much she paid for it, and when it runs out, Rommath nearly throws the subsequent inferior replacement through the window. He makes sure to put a bit extra into her paycheck for the small joy she's brought him.) 

“You can’t go in there.”

“I’ve sent five requests!”

“I understand, but you can’t just barge in there.”

“The door’s open!”

“The Grand Magister is ver－”

“This is _revolutionizing_ stuff, Erindae! Don’t you understand?”

Rommath feels a migraine coming on. It isn’t that he's avoiding Magister Umbric. As Grand Magister, Rommath is required to review and approve all courses of study within the Sanctum, and some of the personal projects his magisters work on really are fascinating. (Rommath's particularly enamored with the development of teleportation orbs. Designed for long range teleportation of a single person, Rommath thinks the orb will make their dealings with the Undercity a great deal easier. The Regent Lord and the Banshee Queen are former rangers, with a great deal of trust between them. It would not do to have either gone for weeks at a time to visit the other. Construction is a delicate matter, one Rommath oversees carefully.) However, compared with a demonic invasion, a near civil war, the loss of yet more of their dwindling population, and convincing two thirds of the new government he isn’t about to fake his own death and flee, Rommath has both little time and less patience for the pet projects of his magisters. Umbric has promised on each request that his work will be “world shattering” and “a means to save the sin’dorei,” but Umbric is a well known embellisher. Rommath does _not_ want to walk into the Sanctum to find the magister has devised a new model of wand or something.

He doesn’t look up as his apprentice enters, shutting the door firmly behind her. (He always leaves it cracked when he's in office. It allows him to eavesdrop without effort on the careless and lets the sanctum cats come and go as they please.) He drinks his terrible coffee and peruses a report he hadn’t trusted Theron to read properly. 

“What should I tell him this time, Grand Magister?” His apprentice is nearly as fed up with Umbric as he is. 

“The same as before,” Rommath says tiredly. By the Sunwell, he doesn't have the energy for this. His apprentice nods and steps out.

“The Grand Magister is extremely busy, Umbric,” he hears her say. “He values your work and your contributions to the Sanctum. After this business at Quel’Danas has been dealt with, the Grand Magister will be hap－ Umbric! You can’t go in there!”

The gilded doors of Rommath’s office burst open and in blows a magister with short dark hair and a deep frown etched into his face, Rommath's apprentice on his heels. Umbric stops short hardly a foot before Rommath’s desk, Erindae several feet back. (She knows better. No one approaches the Grand Magister that way.) Rommath, in a great show of restraint, ignores him. ( _He only wants attention._ )

“Grand Magister,” Umbric implores. “Please, I beg of you. My team and I have made some truly amazing discoveries in our research that you would be most interested in.”

Rommath makes a mark on his page as a placeholder and sets it aside, topmost page down. He carefully sets his coffee on the opposite side, and places his hands together upon his desk in much the same manner as his father when he was younger and in trouble. 

“The things we have _seen_ , Grand Magister!” Umbric goes on, starry-eyed. “I’ve brought you an abstract. Once you read it, you’ll _run_ to our chamber.” 

(Erindae can see the vein working at his temple, he knows. No glamour could cover that.)

“Magister Umbric.” The words are harsh, forced through clenched teeth. He still doesn't look up. “What gives you the right to enter my office?” 

Umbric, in the midst of unfolding his abstract and reading from it, falters. “The ri－ You’re the Grand Magister, sir.” He appears confused. “It’s your job to oversee the work in the sanctum.”

Rommath closes his eyes. For a moment, he feels like he's speaking to Kael, the Kael he first met. Umbric is so _young_ , so _entitled_ , so _rude_. He still wears his hair short － he might be only eighty, with hair like that, and suddenly Rommath feels very old. He _is_ very old. It's oddly comforting. The tragedies he's borne have not been spread over such a short life as he feels.

“I fail to understand how one such as yourself passed the magister’s exam,” he says icily. “Clearly your examiner was ill.” Umbric stares at him. “One does not storm into this office, Magister Umbric. I have received your request, and every request thereafter. Notice that none were denied. I have been busy.”

“I just… I really think,” Umbric says shakily, “that my research would _help_ us.”

“And I think that I have been mitigating a disaster the likes of which Silvermoon has never seen!” Rommath snaps. “Or is your pet project more important than averting a civil war?”

Umbric swallows audibly. “N-no, Grand Magister.”

“Is it more important than protecting the Sunwell from the Burning Legion?”

He shifts uncomfortably. “No, Grand Magister.”

“Shall I tell the families of those who died for the likes of you _Sorry I can’t go to the funeral honoring the sacrifice of your loved one, I have to review Umbric’s Lightdamned research?!_ ”

Umbric drops his eyes. “N-no, Grand Magister.”

“I have _been. Busy._ ” Rommath pauses. He would dearly love to unleash his anger at Umbric, to rage in fire and dying righteousness about his sister and Kael and Tranquillien and his own empty husk of a body, but for what? Incinerating Umbric won’t bring any of them back. (It certainly won’t make Umbric any more intelligent.) It won’t keep him from walking the palace, searching for lingering hints of Sunstriders he knows aren't there. It won’t keep the nightmares away.

He doesn’t understand how Halduron Brightwing or Neeluu are able to go about their lives as they do. He doesn’t understand how Neeluu in’t _angry_ , with her father dead and her brother dead and she herself forced into a role she isn't prepared for and never wanted. How she isn’t bitter, with her prince dead and her promised crown taken from her. He doesn’t understand at all how Halduron, emotional and quick to act as he was, is still _upright_. How he hasn’t drunk himself to death. Halduron’s wife is one of the undead now, living in the Undercity and guard to Sylvanas, and that, Rommath thinks, is maybe the most bittersweet option of all. 

How are they not dead inside as he is?

“I will review your work _when I have time._ ” His voice grates on his own ears. He doesn’t want to talk to Umbric anymore. Or his apprentice. Or talk at all, honestly. “Until then, you are to continue it and _wait._ ”

Umbric nods. “Yes, Grand Magister.”

Rommath looks at him then, and the cold fury Umbric sees in his eyes makes the magister flinch. “You are dismissed,” he says coolly. “And if you ever enter my office in such a manner again, I will acquaint you intimately with the practice of immolation. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Grand Magister.”

“Then leave.” He doesn't watch Umbric scurry out, instead returning to his coffee. He makes a face as he drinks. Umbric made him forget it did not taste good. “Erindae,” he says, turning to his report. “I will not be in the office for the remainder of the day.”

His apprentice is surprised. “Where shall I say you’ve gone, Grand Magister?”

“That’s none of your concern.” He doesn’t mean to but he’d snaps at her, but she says nothing and he doesn’t apologize. He feels badly － Erindae Firestriker is a very good apprentice and has served him faithfully for nigh on twenty years. She's one of the few in the Spire who does not look away as he walks past, who does not fall silent upon his appearance. She rarely complains, and does not voice her opinion unless asked. (She's a much better apprentice － a much better _assistant_ － than the Regent Lord’s.) And she spends her precious free time and her own gold on coffee from the south, most likely because she notices he is not himself. 

“Leave at five bells,” he tells her more gently. “Lock the office if you haven’t finished your work.” 

His apprentice pauses. It's been a very long time since she's been able to leave with her colleagues. “Magister Rommath,” she starts hesitantly. (She rarely addresses him by name. It sounds awkward in her mouth.) “Are you alright?” And they both know this is not about being allowed to leave early.

(He thinks about it. By the Sunwell, he thinks about it. Erindae Firestriker has never once let slip something he's told her in confidence. She'd kept every secret, every rumor, every bare scrap of knowledge to herself, to be spoken in his ear or not at all. If she weren’t his apprentice, he thinks they could almost be friends.)

“I am tired,” he admits. As a compromise. It isn’t quite the truth and it isn’t quite a lie. And he is so very tired. 

“Have you been sleeping?” she asks. 

“Not well.” He is tired in his bones and sleep will not fix that, if he could sleep at all.

“Perhaps you should go home and rest, sir.” She's looking at him now with concern. 

“I am not leaving my office to nap,” he scoffs. She's still looking at him, still concerned, and her manner is so like his sister’s he has to look away.

“It’s not my place,” his apprentice begins slowly, “and I won’t lecture. You’re an adult and my superior besides. But after the Scourge, after working to the bone with you wasn’t enough… sometimes it felt good to sit with people. We didn’t talk to each other, usually. But sometimes I’d go to the bar － you know the one, in the Court of the Elders? The one that still had all its tables?－ and I’d just sit there with other people who were _alive._ ” She looks away, gives a small shrug. “It helped me, back then.”

They’d all crowded into so many bars in Dalaran. The Portrait Room. Cantrips and Crows. Downstairs at the Legerdemain Lounge. Capernian could drink them all under the table. Kael always paid for the drinks, and sometimes drinks for the whole bar. Sitting in the Silver Enclave, Telonicus doodling complicated gizmos all over his notes, and Kael arguing his reports as though they were speeches to all of them, eyes flashing and hands flailing. Kael kindly placing a coffee before a cold and exhausted Rommath, who drank it gratefully with dark circles under his eyes. They'd all been so _young_ and _ignorant_ and _stupid_ and Rommath wants so badly to be that young, ignorant, and stupid person again. (If it means Kael will be alive again, Rommath will be whatever he has to be.)

“Thank you. I will keep it in mind,” he tells his apprentice quietly.

* * *

It's warm on the isle. From Dawnstar Village he can see his sister’s grave, now surrounded on three sides by straight stone blocks. Neeluu commissioned a memorial for the souls interred there, paid out of her own pocket. It's impressive, Rommath sees, and sad. Each white slab is seven feet high, gilded in crimson and gold, and each is filled top to bottom with names in neat double columns. He finds her on the center block, her name etched with the utmost care. _Auriel Bloodsworn._ He pulls a flower from the air, an imitation of the prickly-soft thistles that used to grow at the edges of their home in Tranquillien, and lays it gently on the grave with all the others. It stands out, an odd spiky puffball amongst the soft petals, but Auriel stood out too. Perhaps it will give comfort to others from Tranquillien and the southlands. Auriel had always been so good at that.

It isn’t the same, standing in front of Auriel’s grave as it was before Kael’s. Auriel and her brothers and sisters are buried close to the Sunwell they gave their lives for, forever within its newfound Light and remembered and seen and cherished by every elf who makes the pilgrimage to the Well. Kael is buried in the shadow of the Grove of the far side of the isle, isolated and cursed and loved by no one save Rommath. Upon Auriel’s death, she had the love and strength of a nation, of the Blood Knight Order and the priesthood, and a husband willing to move the mountains themselves for her. Kael died alone, and betrayed. Butchered by the same people who loved his sister so dearly. 

Rommath takes a deep breath. Exhales. 

Perhaps coming here was a mistake.

“Rommath? Oh. Uh, hello.”

Rommath turns, not for the first time glad for his high collar. It gives him a chance to collect himself. Piece himself back together. “Good afternoon, Aethas.” 

(Aethas kindly doesn't comment on the shake in his tone.)

Rommath watches the archmage lays a small bouquet of white flowers upon the grave. Aethas kneels, lips moving in silent prayer, and murmurs “by the Sunwell” at the end. He stands, facing the memorial. It seems neither know what to say. Rommath shifts his weight to his other foot, staring past the lists of names.

“I, ah, best be leav－”

“Rommath?” Aethas’s voice is very soft, and he pauses for what seems so long that if Rommath chose, he could leave, pretending Aethas had not spoken at all.

“My condolences for your sister.” Aethas’s hair is fire in the Quel’Danas sun. “Astalor is beside himself. I imagine you are as well.” Aethas holds himself just as stiffly as Rommath, his eyes focused on a point past the memorial. He hasn't spoken so plainly, so open-faced, to Rommath in a very long time.

“It has been difficult,” Rommath acknowledges, pronouncing each word distinctly and with care, and beside him Aethas dips his head in understanding. 

“I imagine the scrutiny you are under makes things no less easy.” His tone is almost sympathetic, almost kind. Such a contrast from the last time they spoke in such form. Rommath can think of nothing to say, nothing suitable for speaking over the grave of his sister.

“I truly am sorry, for _everyone_ you have lost.”

And there it is. 

Rommath looks at Aethas. Aethas, with his unguarded face and sad eyes, after a beat he pulls his gaze to meet Rommath’s, and Rommath knows. With nine words, Aethas has bridged the chasm between them, shared an understanding between them. Rommath never knew. 

He's always assumed Aethas’s anger towards him is jealousy. Jealousy at being more adept, more proficient with magic, with alchemy, and that proficiency earned him the favor of the Grand Magister, not Aethas. Jealousy that he's been given opportunities by virtue of his friendship with Kael, while Aethas has had to carve with bloodied fingers his precarious position within the Kirin Tor’s Six. Jealousy that the son of a minor lord from the south is a somebody, while the son of Lord Sunreaver is no one in his own country. Rommath never knew...

He never knew that Aethas _knows_. And that despite his jealousy and the hate it festered, he's never breathed a word.

He looks at Aethas then, really _looks_ at him. Rommath had been so utterly consumed by Kael, so completely intoxicated by his prince’s very existence, that he's simply never noticed. Has never tried. No one could have ever come near enough to Kael’s radiance for him to even see their shadow.

Aethas’s eyes on him, for the first time in hundreds of years, are not angry. As if standing in this holy place, the ashes of holy souls beneath their feet, bleeds the animosity from him. As she had in life, so in death his sister heals. It seems she will not stop until Rommath is whole, and maybe not even then.

He does not know what to say to this man, this man who long ago had been his friend. But Aethas, as is his tendency, speaks first. He blows out a breath, squares his shoulders, and speaks.

“I should have anticipated your being here,” he tells Rommath, and his words are not angry but no longer are they soft. “Liadrin has ordered Astalor to the barracks for the afternoon, but he becomes too overcome with grief when alone. I’m sure he would appreciate your company more than mine.” He turns to leave, the sun glinting off the silver threads in his tunic.

Rommath doubts that, Aethas being closer than Rommath to the man, but the moment's gone now. Rommath and Aethas are no longer friends, and whatever affection Aethas harbored for him in the past is long dead and buried. And Rommath can’t blame the Burning Legion or Arthas Menethil or the Kirin Tor. No. This casualty, this murder, was committed centuries ago by Rommath himself. 

“Aethas,” he calls, and Aethas pauses, looks over his shoulder. The hair framing his face against the backdrop of the Grove’s yellow-orange leaves makes him look kissed by fire. Like Rommath and Astalor. Like Kael. “If it means anything, I am sorry. For how things turned out.”

Aethas considers him, the look in his eyes somber. He’s always had beautiful blue eyes, before the fel taint. “It doesn’t,” he says quietly. He turns again to leave, back straight and shoulders squared. “But thank you.” And then he walks soundlessly over the soft Quel’Danas grass, away from the memorial, away from Rommath, leaving only the ghost of one more flower upon the grave.

* * *

Rommath thinks about visiting the Sunwell and praying. It's something Auriel would have done － something she often spoke of doing in her letters. The Sunwell gave her strength, she told him, even as a dead, tainted thing. The Sunwell is the lifeblood of the sin’dorei, his sister told him, and it represented hope and love. His sister was able to see hope in so many things, was able to love even the most terrible, scarred of people. He misses her. His sister would be praying at the Sunwell right now, basking in the glow of its holy waters.

(And he tries. He really does. But he does not have his sister’s faith in the Light. He doesn’t have faith in anything. He kneels by the Sunwell and feels its new, Lightblessed warmth, but the words feel silly and he has nothing to pray for. He's damned and everyone he loves is dead and there is no reason to pollute the Well with his negativity.)

He finds himself at the harbor, around which a cluster of buildings had grown like the spongy mushrooms that used to grow in Tranquillien. Officially it's Sun’s Reach Harbor, but Rommath doesn’t think two ferries, the crew’s office, and a few sheds need such a proper name. In the past few weeks it's become a bustling port that threatens to spill into the rest of the island, prompting outrage from the villagers and headaches from the Dawnblade. Velen has sent a contingent of draenei － “my most trusted blademasters, who followed me into exile” － and Voren’thal has sent an army of his Scryers so of course the Aldor have responded with a few troops of their own, and the three groups have coalesced into something called the Shattered Sun Offensive. The extra manpower was greatly appreciated, when the Legion struck. There weren't enough Dawnblades, not enough blood knights, not enough priests to have kept Quel’Danas from falling. But now, with the threat over, Rommath thinks that Quel’Danas could clean up by themselves, and the draenei should be sent home, and he's told Theron as much.

(Theron had not agreed. “Their help is still needed,” he argued. “They clear the debris, and are not nearly as weakened as the sin'dorei.” So the draenei have been allowed to stay for now.)

Several of the blue hulks are hauling timber toward the water, eager to repair the damage done to _The Sin’loren_ , while a Dawnblade oversees. A team of mages stand conjuring crate after crate of food, while two blood elves load the crates onto carts. Conjured food isn’t the most nutritious, nor does it last long, but it's a clever short term solution nonetheless. 

He hasn’t come to help and he knows he should feel badly for it － every available hand is expected to lend it to the Shattered Sun, being that their own goal is the protection and restoration of the Sunwell from the Burning Legion － but his heart feels both too full and too empty to concern himself with _people_ (despite his apprentice’s advice). He avoids the workers, scrambling down towards the beach. Perhaps watching the murlocs will do him some good. They're alive too, and they can’t ask him questions.

When he and Kael were younger, the beaches belonged to the murlocs. Ugly, slimy blue creatures, running about in the sand and surf. Their screaming could be heard from the Warden’s house day and night, and Rommath often fell asleep to the sound of their gurgling shouts. (Kael often boasted he could speak “murloc,” but seeing that their language is called Nerglish and what he said often confused them, Rommath never believed him.) Back then, it was nigh impossible to walk the beaches without a horde of guards (Captain Fireheart _despised_ murlocs and Kael sometimes badgered to walk the beach simply to see how long before Fireheart became furious enough to slay one). 

There are two distinct murloc villages now, and visiting the coast is no longer the dangerous business it once was. The Greengill murlocs on the far side of the isle are more territorial, bigger, and meaner. They like their privacy, and the Dawnblade war with them for training. The North Sea murlocs are more docile, used to seeing elves, and more willing to engage in trade for things they need. (They're still mean. Just less so. One should never leave their child on the beach alone.) Rommath wonders how many, if any, are descended from those that kept him awake as a boy. (How long do murlocs live anyway?)

He sees only a few scattered huts and a few tadpoles. The adults must have gone into the water for supplies. It feels strange and wrong to him that more murloc tadpoles survived the Scourge and Burning Legion than elven children. How is that fair? 

Not far from the huts stands a Dawnblade, his long high tail blowing in the ocean breeze, with a large crate at his feet. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword as if afraid the tadpoles will swarm and attack at any moment. Lady Neeluu won’t be far if Captain Flamekissed is here.

“Hello, Magister Rommath!” Indeed she isn’t. Several yards away in the surf stands Neeluu, a heavy nylon rope in her hands. Her skirts are hiked up to spare them from the salt water and he doesn’t know why she bothered because the fabric is soaked nonetheless. Spotted, Rommath has no choice but to troop over. 

“What are you doing?” he calls, squinting in the sun. Fewer murlocs or no, he doesn’t think it wise to _swim_ in the ocean. In response, Neeluu plunges her hands into the water and then straightens, arms wet to the elbows and clutching two huge, angry crabs.

“Crabbing!” she calls back delightedly.

“Erm… Why?”

Neeluu places the crabs in the basket moored by her side, pulls out a third, and then sends (what Rommath imagines is) the crab trap back out into the sea. Carefully she sloshes out of the surf, the crab in her hand bubbling irritably. “Because no one’s checked the traps today,” she says, as though it's obvious. She thrusts the crab at him. “Fresh crab?”

Rommath makes a face. “No, thank you.” And Neeluu laughs. She has salt streaks on her face, and though her sleeves are rolled, they and the rest of her have, at one point or another, gotten splashed. “Isn’t crabbing, ah, a little beneath you?” 

Neeluu considers him, eyes crinkling in the corners. “Never.” The word is whispered on the wind. “I do my part like everyone else.” She grins at him, the crab clacking its claws furiously. (Kael would never have been caught crabbing. In the surf in his silks. _The_ **_salt_** _, Rommath,_ he would say.)

“I used to watch Thalorien and Lana’thel from the balcony when I was a girl,” she says wistfully. “Do you remember all the murlocs? Thalorien and Lana’thel paid them, I think.” She pauses a moment. “Though I don’t know if murlocs actually have a concept of _money_ , per se…”

“I really don’t think they do.”

The crab spits at them.

“I think you’re right,” Neeluu agrees. “But they would give the murlocs eggs.”

Rommath raises an eyebrow. “Eggs?”

“Eggs,” she confirms. “Dragonhawk eggs. The murlocs really enjoyed them, but they couldn’t climb the trees.” 

“Murlocs don’t eat dragonhawk eggs.” And Neeluu laughs again.

“I’m telling you, these ones did! Thalorien and Lana’thel, they would bring an entire basket of dragonhawk eggs, and the murlocs would let them in the water.” Her eyes sparkle. Rommath doesn’t entirely believe her (what murloc ate eggs? And how would it get the egg in the first place to know it even liked them?). “Sometimes they came back with nothing,” she admits, “but sometimes they came back with _crabs_.”

(And Thalorien never shared any of his illicit seafood with him or Kael, Rommath thinks, and for some reason, this makes him want to laugh.)

A few arcane bubbles drift lazily past them, over to Captain Flamekissed and his crate where they pop, four bubbling, crackling crabs falling into it out of sight. Neeluu, remembering her own, finally plops the poor beast into her basket. A wave directed at the Dawnblade captain has all her crabs encased in a bubble of pink and unceremoniously dumped into the waiting crate.

“Not alone then?” Rommath asks. (Flamekissed doesn’t count. He's Neeluu’s constant shadow.) She shakes her head.

“I asked Astalor to come with. I shouldn’t pry but…” She bites her lip. “He really has been very upset. I think he needs something to do. Not rest.” 

(Astalor's always been like that. It's one of the reasons Rommath had been so surprised at his feelings for Auriel, and Auriel’s for him. Astalor _wallows_ , if allowed. Astalor is _emotional._ Auriel was a doer. If she didn’t like something, she changed it, and if she couldn’t, she focused on things that needed to be done to keep herself occupied. She was always thinking of others, always working. Always doing something. Like… crabbing.)

And this is how Rommath finds himself knee deep in the surf, shins throbbing (crab traps are _heavy_ and they zoom through the ocean much faster than he anticipated), fishing crabs from traps and floating them in pearlescent bubbles to Tyrael Flamekissed. His fingers bleed, he swears several times (he thinks he hears Astalor laughing several yards away), and one crab pinches him so hard he hurls it back into the water with a lick of flame for good measure. (Astalor laughs at that too.) And finally Flamekissed hollers at them as the murlocs begin climbing out of the sea, and Rommath drags himself － soaked, bleeding a little, and tired － out of the surf and engages in a spirited argument with Astalor and Neeluu over who's the best crabber. 

(Rommath argues that only what was caught after he started could be counted. Astalor agrees with him. Neeluu sticks her tongue out and calls him a sore loser. And Tyrael Flamekissed tells them they caught too many Lightdamned crabs and that they were not supposed to have been crab _fishing_ but _trapping_. Rommath maintains that he wins.)

“My Lady!” Flamekissed says crossly, as Neeluu shakes out her skirts and then fills them with crabs. “My Lady, what are you doing?” But Neeluu pays him no mind and carefully picks her way across the sand with her skirt-pouch of crabs to the murlocs.

(If after walking corpses and demons and their own insane kin the Warden of the Sunwell is murdered by murlocs, Rommath is going to end his own life right there on the beach because that would be just _too much_ for him to process and explain to the Regent Lord and the people.)

Neeluu approaches the largest murloc, a dark blue she-beast with an orange crest. Tentatively she waves to get its attention. The murlocs scream. (It doesn’t matter their attitude or emotion; everything in Nerglish is screamed.) Flamekissed stomps over, hand on his sword. The murlocs scream louder, hands flying to their spears.

“Tyrael, stay there,” Neeluu calls. “You’re scaring them.”

Flamekissed stops. Splutters. “My Lady. Step back.” Rommath shares a look with Astalor, who mouthes _I don’t know_.

Neeluu indicates Flamekissed to the murlocs and then shakes her head. She speaks a few words of Thalassian, which they don’t seem to understand. She thinks, and then very carefully kneels to the sand and empties her skirt-pouch of crabs. The murlocs scream. 

She tells the she-murloc, “This is a _gift_. Because you let us crab.” She points to the crabs in the sand, and then to the murlocs. They understand the word _crab._

“Crab!” the she-murloc screams. Neeluu nods.

“A crab gift,” she repeats slowly, but they don’t know what that means. Flamekissed is coiled tight as a spring, misliking the Warden so close to a group of known hostiles. (Even if they are less hostile than the Greengills.) Neeluu thinks a moment, and then says, “It’s a _trade_.” The murlocs scream. They know the word _trade_ too.

“That’s sweet,” Astalor murmurs. Rommath wouldn’t have used that word, per se (perhaps _dangerously stupid_ or _imbecilic_ or _horribly ill-advised_ ), but Neeluu’s heart is in the right place, he supposes.

One of the murlocs pokes at a crab. Neeluu continues. “I _trade crab._ You _no trade.”_

“I feel like I’m babysitting a child,” Rommath hears Flamekissed mutter. 

The she-murloc stares at Neeluu with large, unblinking eyes. Neeluu repeats herself, this time with hand gestures. “I _give_ -trade crab _._ You no trade _._ As _thanks_.”

It takes several more minutes (and Flamekissed grows more and more on edge), but the she-murloc seems to finally understand. It nods, as much as a creature with no neck can nod, and screams, “Crab!” and gestures for its tribe to collect Neeluu’s gift (which by this time is attempting escape). The tadpoles, peeking curiously around the huts, shriek. Neeluu beams. She allows Flamekissed to seize her about the waist and all but drag her back to Astalor and Rommath, covered in sand and crab spit. The murlocs, behind them, screech. 

“Why on Azeroth would you do that?” Flamekissed demands. Neeluu wipes her hands on her skirts.

“We aren’t the only ones experiencing food shortages, Tyrael,” she says gently. “Didn’t you see how little they brought back to their tadpoles? It won’t hurt us to give a handful of murlocs our surplus.”

Flamekissed frowns but doesn't argue. (Rommath finds he can’t either.) Rather, he puts his hands at his sides and bows his head in the odd way Dawnblades do, and Neeluu, pleased, loops her arm through Astalor’s and begins walking back toward the village, talking animatedly about how best to prepare seafood. (Astalor des enjoy food, and Auriel had never eaten as well as she did in the eight years she'd been his wife.)

And Rommath takes a deep breath, feeling a little lighter for the first time since the day Kael died. There is salt crusting his robes (they're conjured, it doesn’t matter), cuts on his hands, and dark bruises on his bare legs, but not even Tyrael Flamekissed scowling and kicking sand over his shoes (that doesn't matter either, Flamekissed has never liked him anyway) can erase the fact that in the seven weeks since he buried his prince, right now Rommath feels nothing and the nothing isn’t _empty_. _He_ doesn’t feel empty. (He doesn’t know if he feels anything at all, but in this moment, after an afternoon in the surf with people who are alive and listening to the screams of amphibious beasts who are most definitely alive and enjoying dinner, he thinks he feels _something_. Maybe his apprentice had the right idea after all.)

He leaves his shoes in the sand (they're conjured, and they will vanish in time) and hauls the crab crate back with him to Dawnstar Village, and sinks into a glorious bath. He feels almost new when he finally emerges, and as he watches the muck spiral down the drain he imagines it is some of the darkness he’s been keeping inside, finally torn out. He feels almost annoyed at having to settle for a conjured robe (he wants something _real_ , where on Azeroth did this feeling come from?), for conjured shoes. Chatting in Neeluu’s kitchen, Astalor and the cook preparing the crabs, he forgets, for the span of a few precious hours, about his sister and Kael, about Aethas and his dead friends and his own anger. He forgets about the petition (which Theron has still not addressed) and Umbric and the rumors in the south. 

And he almost forgets, almost but not quite, as he swallows that first piece, that he does not like crab, no matter how much flourish is put on it － only sees its furious, bubbling face and little spidery legs. But Astalor made it and Astalor right now is so happy, and so Rommath steels his gut and chokes it down. (Astalor laughs at him for the third time that day, because, “I would have made you something else, Rommath.”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General reminder that some locations in this chapter come from Warcraft III.
> 
> Again: headcanon that young male elves wear their hair short and older elves long (and vice versa for female elves), re: Umbric. I adore Umbric. 
> 
> If I'd have known how important Auriel was going to be when I first picked her name from that list, I would've picked a more important belf lmao. I totally imagined when I wrote the first chapter that baby brother Sorrem was going to be the heartstring tugger. I weep for my guardian angels Auriel and Erindae Firestriker. Without you two guiding Rommath, we would both be lost.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kael finally buckles down and Rommath talks to Aethas
> 
> ******
> 
> (This chapter is rated T+/M)
> 
> EDIT: This chapter has been edited for formatting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone else remember when Alterac Mountains was a zone?

_Rommath let himself into the apartment, tears crusted at the corners of his eyes from the Alterac winds. Shivering, he elected not to shed his cloak and scarf － a gift from his mother imported from Capital City, and nearly suited to the mountain climate － and went to work rebuilding the dying fire in his small hearth. He stood before it for several minutes, blowing on his hands until his body stopped twitching out of his control, and only then did he begin picking at the laces of his boots with frozen fingers. He languished when he remembered himself as a child complaining of cold nights in Tranquillien. The Alterac Mountains made Tranquillien look positively sweltering._

_There was a muffled curse in the other room, followed by the sound of fabric slithering against fabric, and a loud yawn. “Why on Azeroth is it so Lightdamned cold?”_

_He shouldn’t have been surprised. At this point in their relationship, he’d learned nothing was off the table with Kael’thas Sunstrider, and the possibility of preserving his own biological functionings seemed to rank shockingly low._

_“You let the fire burn out,” he grumbled. He sat on the floor, his arms wrapped around his knees. He looked like a child and he knew it, but he hated the cold and Kael knew that._

_Kael shuffled into view, the fire casting him in a soft glow of reds and oranges, like the phoenix king he would soon become. He wore only a loose silk dressing gown, and he gazed at Rommath huddled before the hearth with what could only be termed affection._

_“You’re pouting, Archmage.”_

_“I’m irritated.”_

_Kael flicked his hand lazily, amplifying the heat given off by the fire, as he softly padded forward on bare feet. He dropped to his knees behind the archmage and draped himself over the man’s back, his long golden hair spilling over their shoulders. Rommath stared determinedly into the flames._

_With one finger, Kael brushed away the salt on Rommath’s face. “That cold?”_

_Rommath refused to crumble. “Yes.” Kael’s arms had snaked around him, and the shiver Rommath felt had little to do with the Dalaranian winter. “The wind today is horrid.”_

_His prince made a noise of sympathy, pressing his cheek against his. His hands gently rubbed along Rommath’s arms, trying to bring some heat back into them. “You could have stayed home,” he murmured._

_Rommath would not let Kael win this time. “You don’t need another reason to stay in bed.” He tried to snap, but between the fire and Kael and his thawing body, he heard the ghost of a smile in his voice. Lightdamnit. Kael heard it too and smiled into his skin as Rommath’s breath hitched when he nuzzled against his neck._

_“But I do,” he protested, breath warm and lips soft. “So do you, my sun. You work too hard.”_

_Rommath felt himself lean back into his prince, and did not protest as Kael’s long fingers brushed lightly along the line of his throat. “You don’t work hard enough,” he managed, and his eyes fluttered closed. Kael was winning, damn him, and he’d so wanted to be angry at Kael, but now for the life of him, he could no longer remember why._

_His prince hummed against his ear. “I do for you.” His tongue delicately licked the sensitive area just underneath it, just enough for Rommath’s breath to hitch again. “I always do for you.”_

_He felt aflame. Every touch by his prince’s slender fingers left trails of fire along his skin, every kiss a bloom of wildfire. He didn’t know when Kael had unclasped his robes until he felt the fire erupt over his chest, dancing over his collarbone and down toward his abdomen, wildfire blooming over his shoulder. He hissed through his teeth, and when his prince pressed his lips to his ear and murmured, “Don’t hold back. I want to hear you,” Rommath groaned and seized him roughly by the hair to kiss him as though he would die without him. He broke off into a low moan, his forehead against Kael’s, his prince's heavy breathing going straight to the straining bulge in his trousers._

_Kael hardly ever had to touch him to make him come undone._

_“Forgive me?” his prince asked, and Rommath had forgotten the offense, but he didn’t think it mattered. All that mattered was Kael, and Kael was kissing him. Kael was touching him, Kael was making all sorts of wonderful, obscene noises because of him._

_“Dalah’arifal,” he breathed. And the endearment alone nearly made Rommath －_

He was awake. He’d been dreaming, he thought, his head muggy from sleep. He wasn’t quite ready to get up yet (a sentiment not shared by his _entire_ body, he noted vaguely). The sun was rising, its light just visible through his window. Yawning, he rolled over, intending to sleep a few more minutes before getting ready for the day. Except －

_Oh._

His trousers were rather… _wet_ . And he was still… Oh. _Oh._

The moments just after waking were the best for recalling dreams, and Rommath remembered his perfectly clearly. It was not the first time － no, not at all the first time － but it still drew color to his cheeks. He flung an arm over his eyes as though someone were looking, his face burning. (He always felt like an adolescent when this happened, no matter how _natural_ it happened to be.) And in his dream, Kael had called him…

Well. That was new.

* * *

“I’ve finished!” Kael declared, slamming a scroll of parchment dead center on the table. Jaina jumped, nearly spilling her tea. “Go on then, someone read it!”

“One never finishes being an absolute pain in the ass,” Rommath muttered, his nose all but touching _Remnants of Zin-Azshari._ The book was massive, the text was tiny, and he had been at this Lightforsaken project for a week. At least this book had diagrams and illustrations, the better to understand the very beginnings of arcane magic.

“Give it here.” Capernian twitched the scroll over, careful to avoid her half finished croissant and formula scribblings. 

“You may begin praising my brilliance at any time,” Kael told her. Capernian ignored him, chewing on her nail as was her tendency when she read. 

“You’re going to give yourself a headache,” Neeluu told Rommath gently. She sat between him and Jaina; a kindness, Rommath thought, though Neeluu didn't know (nobody knew) of his mislike of the Lady Proudmoore; the two frost mages were attempting to solve some sort of complicated ice puzzle beside him, discussing at sometimes for ten minutes before moving a single piece.

“I’ve almost finished,” he told her distractedly. Was that an A or a U? Why was Darnassian so complicated? It shouldn’t be this difficult, he thought irritably to himself. Thalassian was but its cousin, and neither kaldorei nor quel’dorei were inclined to change, unlike humans or dwarves. (Their languages went through stages of ancient and old and modern, and, bafflingly, new, which was somehow more recent than modern, and Rommath could not understand how the Common word for _magic_ , for example, had come from Old Common word _dweomercraft_. It was no wonder humans never learned from their own mistakes; they couldn’t read their own histories!) But the night elf who had written this book (clearly one for the ways of his magically adept ancestors, or perhaps one of those who had lived Zin-Azshari itself) wrote in a dialect just different enough that Rommath wanted to throw the Lightdamned book across the room in frustration. Telestra had given him this assignment as punishment. For what, he hadn’t yet discovered, but he was sure it was punishment.

“Look! I think if you turn this like so…” A small scuffle like cracking ice followed Jaina’s words, accompanied by a faint tinkling of bells. 

“Well?” Kael demanded.

Capernian, as in all things, was unimpressed. “It’s good,” she acquiesced, “though your penmanship is sloppy and you ought not write so quickly.” She picked a piece off of her croissant and chewed thoughtfully. “The effects of prayerblossom are as numerous as they are minimal in effect and you describe them in great detail; and you make a great a fantastic argument for shimmering frond’s use as an ornamental herb over an alchemical in the third paragraph.” She pushed the scroll back towards Kael. “As for plaguebloom and sorrowmoss, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of plaguemoss.”

(Telestra had apparently had it in for Kael, assigning him a particularly difficult essay on the various herbs and their uses within the Swamp of Sorrows. The Sorrows had few useful herbs, and fewer that had been documented in any detail.)

Kael snatched the scroll and frowned at it. Before, he would have argued, Rommath knew. He would have insisted his information was correct and Capernian’s was wrong and Rommath would have been dragged into the fray only to have Kael flounce off in a huff. Sometimes Rommath still expected it, and sometimes Kael still delivered, but more often than not now, he listened. Sort of.

“I don’t recall reading that,” Kael said to his essay.

“I can recommend you an excellent book,” Capernian offered, back to her scribblings. Kael’s frown deepened. 

“Yes,” he said, after a long pause. “Do that.”

Rommath sighed heavily after a moment and sat up. His back ached. (His head also hurt, but he would not admit that.) Telestra was a slavedriver, he’d decided. Possibly a miracleworker, or a madwoman, he and Kael had been turned over to the Grand Magistrix after Pilgrim’s Bounty (an event Rommath learned to be similar to Quel’Thalas’s own Harvest Festival). Rommath thought it to be a good sign － the very best and brightest were exclusively under the tutelage of one instructor － and Telestra was rumored to be extremely selective. (She was also rumored to be extremely temperamental, and possibly an alcoholic, and while Rommath could confirm the former with ease, he had yet to see evidence of the latter.) And Kael…

Rommath couldn’t say for certain whether it had been his bookstore confession or Telestra herself, but Kael _thrived_ under the woman’s instruction. She worked them hard, her lessons challenging practical applications of difficult concepts, and at night sent them back to their quarters with strenuous readings and essays to be completed in no less than two days’ time. Perhaps because it was her tendency to indulge Kael － and she did indulge him, Rommath noted. Their assignments rarely concerned Quel’Thalas, instead requiring them to research the world at large, speaking to the residents of the city. (Kael had made friends with a dwarf after Telestra assigned him four readings in a row from books written in Dwarvish. He had even begun to pick up a bit of the craggy language, to his delight.) She may have been a madwoman, but she certainly knew what she was doing.

“This one, here. Do you think?” To his left, Neeluu and Jaina were still attempting to solve Antonidas’s puzzle. He gave them one weekly, Rommath knew not why. They always refused help, even when Kael insisted. (Perhaps especially when Kael insisted.) Shouts erupted as the puzzle exploded into an arcane shower of pink and purple sparkles, and Jaina collected the small pale sphere concealed inside. She held it up to show them all, grinning.

“Very good!” Kael beamed. 

“That one didn’t take us nearly as long as last week’s,” Neeluu commented, flicking through her notes. “What’s inside the sphere?”

“Smoke.” Jaina shook it, but the answer was apparently the same, and Neeluu wrote it down. Supposedly the contents of the sphere told Jaina and Neeluu a new assignment, but the girls had always steadfastly refused to share and Rommath had long given up puzzling it out. Antonidas, it seemed, was of the sort who valued both intelligence and secrecy.

(If Jaina seemed offput by being the sole human in a group of elves, it didn’t show. She was very curious about elves, respectfully so, and Neeluu and Kael wasted no time answering her every question. Rommath found it disconcerting. Elves were insular for a reason. There was no reason for a human from Kul Tiras to know the intimacies of high elven court life, or about the Sunwell, and the way Jaina regarded it all － like a fantasy － made him irritable.)

Soon enough, conversation veered off course as a group of their peers (consisting of several goblins, Rommath noted with surprise) flitted by, chattering excitedly about the upcoming holidays. 

“Oh, it will be good to go home for New Year,” Neeluu sighed. “I do think we all need a reprieve.”

“We most certainly do,” Kael agreed. “I intend on returning home, myself.” And Rommath’s eyebrows shot up because Kael had not been home in several hundred years, and whenever the subject had been broached, had always scoffed _I will not return to Quel’Thalas as simple as I had left_. 

“I think I shall spend the holidays here,” Capernian muttered. “Cedric has been relentless. I should think if I left, I will come back to a pile of work taller than myself and the expectation that I am more skilled for the time off.” Jaina made a murmur of sympathy. “Will you be returning to Kul Tiras?” Capernian asked her. A week’s reprieve ordinarily would be out of the question for such a long voyage, but with Jaina’s arrival a portal to the nation of her birth had been constructed, and such a visit was now possible.

Jaina shook her head. “Actually, I have been invited to holiday in Lordaeron.”

“That’s hardly a holiday at all,” Kael scoffed. “It’s only across the lake. A proper holiday should be somewhere far away.” (Rommath’s head shot up. Kael _wouldn’t_.)

Jaina laughed. “My dear friends Calia and Arthas have invited me, I shan’t refuse them.” (Kael’s ears drooped.)

His prince’s infatuation with Lady Jaina Proudmoore had not abetted. If anything, it had only gotten worse. Rommath hated that he cared. (He was not jealous, he told himself.) If Jaina had noticed (and how could she not? In Rommath’s opinion, it was blatantly obvious), she never made mention, and it had only spurred Kael’s passions. Perhaps the diligent Jaina was the reason he had become so devoted to his studies.

Across the table, Capernian had finished her croissant and her scribblings. Some complicated formula for some engineering thing or other she had been experimenting with for the past month or so. It wasn’t even for her. She caught Rommath’s eye and raised one elegantly elongated eyebrow. He returned her look with the barest shake of his head. He could not meet with her tonight. He had promised Astalor they would meet to play chess (he hoped it was chess; he really did not want to play another round of the human game Astalor liked), and he generally did not like to break promises to Astalor. Kael’s fawning had dampened any needs he may have had, besides.

* * *

Astalor lived on the fourth floor of the Silver Enclave. It spoke as to the wealth of his family, because the Silver Enclave was the more prestigious housing, and the corner apartments, in one of which Astalor lived, boasted balconies, the only way to lord one’s wealth over the general population. Rommath, the son of a minor lord, lived on the second floor. (Prince Kael’thas lived in his own apartment two doors down from the dormitories, their street reserved for townhomes of especially wealthy students.) Rommath didn’t like it － everything felt so enclosed, so very… _foreign_ , but the dwarves and the gnomes would go on and on about “all the _space_ ,” and the humans seemed to settle in just fine. 

Astalor had a mat outside of his door (“It’s to kick the dirt off before you step inside, Rommath. The humans do it.”) and a shiny brass number plate. Rommath knocked with his entire fist, as he always did. Those were the knocks Kael sometimes heard, as opposed to knocks with knuckles that he blatantly ignored.

A beat. Then the click of a lock and the slide of a bolt. (Rommath thought Astalor scared of his own shadow for using a deadbolt. Magic secured a door just fine.) Then the door opened to reveal a shock of red hair that belonged not to Astalor but to Aethas Sunreaver. 

“Oh.”

“Ngh,” said Aethas, which wasn’t a word at all.

Had he gotten the apartment wrong? Not that he wasn’t pleased to see his friend － he had been trying without success to catch Aethas since his arrival in the autumn, but seeing Aethas when he’d been expecting Astalor was a surprise, and Rommath did not like surprises. “Hello.”

Aethas stared at him. 

“I’ve, ah…” Rommath took a moment to compose himself. The apartment was definitely correct. “Is Astalor here?”

Aethas seemed to remember himself. “Gone out.”

“Out?”

“He’ll be back shortly, if you’d like to wait.” Aethas stepped aside to allow Rommath entrance.

(Rommath refused to believe things were awkward. Sure, they had not spoken in some time － and he would not dignify to answer exactly how long － but he and Aethas were _friends_. Surely Aethas had been looking forward to seeing Rommath as Rommath had been looking forward to seeing him?)

“How are you finding Dalaran?” he asked, once they had sat. Aethas, he’d noticed, had taken a seat on one of Astalor’s squashy armchairs, leaving the couch for Rommath.

“Fine,” came the response. “Not as intimidating as I’d thought, but challenging nonetheless.” Aethas looked stiff.

“I’d heard you were snatched right away. Archmage Ansirem Runeweaver? That’s very impressive.”

Aethas nodded. “Mm. He, ah. Came to my lesson.” Aethas had tea. He did not offer any to Rommath. “By the end of the day, I was an apprentice.”

“Congratulations.”

(Was this awkward? No. They had just not seen each other for some time. Distance did make things difficult.)

Aethas nodded in thanks. “And you?”

“Kael and myself have recently become apprentice to Grand Magistrix Telestra,” Rommath told him. “An absolute beast. I’ve heard good things about Runeweaver, however.”

Aethas’s expression was unreadable. He nodded again. “I’m afraid I’ve nothing to offer you on Telestra,” he said apologetically. “I’m not familiar with her.” He drank his tea, eyes averted, and Rommath did not understand why he suddenly felt as though they were separated by a large chasm. It was immensely relieving when Astalor came home, a bag under one arm. Upon seeing Rommath, he panicked.

“Sorry, sorry!” The poor man dashed inside without even removing his outdoor things. “Rommath, my apologies. I meant to be back ages ago, but the apothecarium was so busy…”

Rommath frowned. “You don’t control people’s shopping habits, Astalor. It’s near Winter Veil, of course it’s busy.”

To Aethas, Astalor offered nothing but a pained look. Aethas stood up and embraced their friend warmly. “Hey,” he said, his tone much different than it had been with Rommath. “It’s alright. We’ll finish this another day.”

“You’re not angry?”

“No.” Aethas clapped Astalor on the shoulder. “Never at you.” Grinned. “Thank you for the chat and the tea, my friend. I must be running along.”

“Mind how you go,” Astalor told him.

“And you,” Aethas replied. He nodded at Rommath, pulled on his cloak, and left. 

Astalor was still upset. “It was only meant to be a short errand,” he muttered.

“Do not fuss over what you can’t change,” Rommath told him. “Sit. What are we playing tonight? I do hope it’s chess.”

* * *

The interaction with Aethas bothered him. That hadn’t been normal, had it? Aethas hadn’t always been like that, had he? The Aethas Rommath remembered had been quiet and kind. He supposed people changed but… was that really a change? Or was that how Aethas had always been? (He felt guilty that he couldn’t quite recall. It had been him, Kael, and Astalor for so long in the palace, and now his inner circle had extended to the Ladies Neeluu and Jaina and Capernian. The Aethas of his boyhood was… not clear in his mind, if he was entirely honest.)

It was not like Rommath to avoid an issue once one had been discovered, and so after he had managed to extricate himself from Lady Jaina (yet another question about elves, bother), he went up to the fourth floor and knocked. Aethas, when he opened the door, looked surprised.

“Ngk.” Cough. "Er. Good evening."

“Good evening,” Rommath said. Best to be polite, in case he had inadvertently caused offense. “May I come in?”

Aethas hesitated. “I really don’t think－”

“It won’t take long,” Rommath promised. “I should like to… clear the air, as it were.”

His friend regarded him for a moment before standing aside. “Alright.”

Like Rommath, Aethas kept his space very neat. A selection of arcane crystals of different tempers and qualities lined his windowsill, books were stacked in columns along the sides in his bookcase to conserve space, and the fire in the hearth crackled merrily, soot and dust swept clean. He had taken quickly to Dalaran life, it seemed, as the selection of snacks his maid brought were all of Dalaran make. (Rommath, still desperately missing the food of his homeland and quite fed up with Dalaranian foods by this point, took coffee to be polite. At least the coffee was passable, though nothing could replace a bitter Tranquillien blend.)

Not one for small talk, Rommath didn’t bother. “I feel as though we’ve had a… misunderstanding.” Or something. 

Aethas cocked an eyebrow. “A misunderstanding?”

“What I mean to say,” Rommath clarified,” is that the other day, at Astalor’s, it seemed as though… things were uneasy, between us.”

“Uneasy.” 

Rommath wasn’t sure if Aethas was questioning it or confirming it. “It just felt _off_ ,” he tried again, and Aethas had no response to that. “I think perhaps I’ve upset you, and I understand. You arrived close to Hallow’s End and it will be Winter Veil in only a few days. It wasn’t as if I did not know of your coming.” When Aethas did not interrupt him, he continued. “I apologize for that. I have been busy, but I _have_ tried to see you, and I had looked forward to your arrival. It seems as though we have been just missing each other these past few months, one arriving just as the other leaves.” He quirked a grin. “It’s a talent Kael is quite good at, actually, when he doesn’t want to be found.”

(Aethas said nothing, and Rommath wondered if he’d always had such an unreadable face. He’d had to have done, he decided.)

“If you like,” he went on, “please do join us whenever you see us. Or allow me to extend an invitation to my apartments whenever you like. I should like to make our friendship right again.”

At that Aethas’s eyes softened. He delicately bit into one of the cookies his maid had brought, a butter cookie that left his fingers and lips shiny with oil. As he chewed, he deliberately avoided Rommath’s gaze, as though Rommath had posed him some great and terrible riddle, and though Rommath considered himself very good at reading expressions, he did not know what Aethas’s meant.

“Alright.” His friend finished the cookie, wiping his fingers with a napkin. He fixed Rommath with a cool gaze. “I would like that. I, too, felt our chance interaction was _off_.”

“Alright then.” If Rommath had been Kael’thas, he would have jumped to his feet and shook Aethas’s hand in an overdramatic display of enthusiasm. Or he would have clapped Aethas on the shoulder and strong-armed him into a tight, emotional embrace and proclaim that they would be the very best of friends (as he had done on more than one occasion with Rommath and on many of them sober). But Rommath was not Kael, and simply drank his tea, and was even coaxed into trying one of those funny butter cookies (why one would eat a cookie made of _butter_ , Rommath didn’t know), and had to admit they were not entirely terrible. 

Aethas even smiled at him as he left, and walked him to the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Capernian is a real character. She's one of Kael's advisors in Tempest Keep. She looks nearly exactly like one of my characters (my main to be exact), which means I'm in love with her. 
> 
> If it's not quite clear, Rommath may be Kael'thas-sexual, but sometimes he has needs and during these short, discreet affairs, he doesn't care what gender his partner is. (His sexuality can best be described as "can you not tell the entire city we fucked because I don't need that kind of embarrassment in my life and also maybe Kael will find out and I don't want him to.")
> 
> Also, if no one has noticed, I update the tags with nearly every chapter. I'm not kidding when I said there's a media reference in every single chapter. There's... three? in this one. I gave you one blatantly obvious one that I had to research for literally 45 minutes for. (Sometimes these references come from other fics. The fics are in my bookmarks.) If you find them... I'll think of some sort of prize, promise!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rommath and Aethas come to blows, and the Lady Neeluu presents him with a small gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We still in the past yo. Sorry. I know. I wanna go back to the present too.
> 
> EDIT: This chapter has been edited for formatting.

_Cousin,_

_I think perhaps you have truly gone mad. Is it not true what they say, the arcane addles one’s mind? You who have been so predisposed to its power at so young an age are surely to succumb to its whispers as quickly as a shadow priest to the Void, and I do believe this to be the start._

_Do not look upon my words in anger as I know you will, cousin, for I only wish to be_ _realistic_ _. Your friend gave fine counsel and you would do well and better to listen to him before you approach your father the king with your intentions or, by the Sunwell, the Convocation. They will all of them surely believe that this magic city is filling your head with thoughts too broad and dangerous for Quel'Thalas and will demand your return home, and I know doing so will break your very heart._

_This Lady Jaina of whom you speak seems a remarkable woman, truly gifted and gentile. Every word you lavish upon her speaks to her exceptional magical ability and striking intelligence, and though much and many of your praises are superfluous, they appear genuine and true. I think I should aspire to meet this woman whom you have fallen so far for and see for myself if she be truly worthy of you － you know you haven’t the best of judgement! But have no fear from me, cousin, for I have my own interests and will not ingratiate myself with yours._

_While I must again advise that courting Lady Jaina is a horrendous idea and I believe you to be an absolute lovestruck idiot, you do prey on my soft heart by writing me and you knew such when you sent me your letter. You are a menace, and Light help us all when you take the throne. If you must have this woman, ply your father with the advantages of a union between Quel’Thalas and Kul Tiras. I admit I know little and less of the lady’s kingdom and I will be of no help to you there._

_Above all, do her a single courtesy, and yourself as well. The Lady Jaina has lived for eighteen years, and you for an aeon. You have lived a thousand lifetimes before even the birth of her grandfather’s grandfather. What shall you do in four score years when she is dead and you are still youthful and strong? Human lives do not extend nearly half as long as elves’, cousin, remember that. It is a balance of power that will always fall, however sadly, unfairly to you._

_May the road rise to meet you, cousin._

_Lor’themar_

* * *

With the dawning of a new year came its own special form of hell. Jaina returned from Lordaeron bearing stories of huge Winter Veil trees and grand feasts. Neeluu returned from Quel’Danas, brighter for her time at the most holy place of holies and alive with the tales of Dawnblade jousting. She and Jaina traded whispers that made them giggle and steadfastly refused to enlighten the rest of them. (Kael had not returned home, as Rommath had guessed he wouldn’t.) 

They were, the four of them (that is, Kael, Rommath, Neeluu, and not Jaina but Astalor), brunching at the Legerdemain Lounge, Neeluu having news from the king and Belo’vir. She was animated as she spoke, eyes alive, and Rommath found himself quite enjoying their meal. He so rarely spent time with only Kael and Astalor anymore that even Neeluu’s intrusion, however small, was tolerated and even welcome, for she tempered Kael and built up Astalor (and kept Rommath from wanting to throttle the both of them and himself).

“－extended family was in attendance,” Neeluu was recalling. “Even the ones by marriage. You should have come home, Kael; the banquet wasn’t quite as stiff and boring this year.”

“Still stiff and boring,” Kael sniffed. He disliked banquets and all their required propriety. “Perhaps if we had it arranged much as a tavern crawl…” He grinned. 

“Oh by the Sunwell,” Rommath muttered. It was too early for this.

“Think about it! How much fun is Dalaran’s?”

“I don’t think it’s the same situation,” Astalor peeped.

“Nonsense!” Kael thumped his glass (citrus juice, with Andorhal champagne and a lemon wedge) on the table. “The Spire is big enough. We could arrange the tables around the palace!”

(A man of lesser breeding might have been tempted to slip under the table as Kael’s voice rose in excitement. Rommath, however, had to settle for pinching the bridge of his nose and waiting until Kael stopped, choked, or － Sunwell bless him － was thrown out.)

“－food and wine at each table,” Kael was going on. “ _Exactly_ like the tavern crawl.”

“Your father would thump you with Felo’melorn’s blunt side for such a suggestion,” Rommath muttered.

“When I am king then!”

“ _I_ will thump you with Felo’melorn’s blunt side.” 

Kael took a deep drink from his glass and licked his lips. “Dear Rommath, you would, for once in your life, _enjoy_ _yourself_ at my Winter Veil tavern crawl.”

“The sharp side then.”

Astalor, who seemed to be delighting in Rommath’s exasperation, patted him on the back. “I seem to recall someone once advising me to ignore him,” he murmured.

“It’s a little more difficult when you’ve been at his side for several centuries,” Rommath grumbled back. Astalor chuckled.

Neeluu, a great deal more amused than she had any right to be, brought them back around. “I have a letter from your cousin,” she told Kael, handing him an envelope. “I have been sworn to secrecy about its very existence, so you two” (and here she looked at Rommath and Astalor) “have never seen it.” She grinned. Astalor and Kael laughed. Rommath didn’t.

“How did you like Lor?” Kael asked her, tucking the letter into his sleeve. 

“Oh, he was darling. Favorite cousin indeed,” Neeluu teased. “He looked precisely like he didn’t want to be there.”

Kael laughed and brushed a lock of hair off her shoulder. “No, probably not,” he admitted. “His intended lives in the city. Probably couldn’t wait to see her. Priestess, you know.”

“Oh!” Neeluu pulled out another letter, this one for Rommath. “The Sunsail harbormaster was in attendance as well. This is from your sister.”

Surprised, Rommath took it. His sister always sent her letters to him directly. Perhaps she’d been hoping he’d come back to Quel’Thalas for the holiday… Suddenly he felt immensely guilty. His father would have been at the New Year banquet, every lord and lady always went. He hadn’t seen his father in… Too long. He held the letter gingerly, as though it might explode.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any letters,” Neeluu told Astalor. “I’m sorry.”

Astalor shrugged. “My father doesn’t believe in Winter Veil presents.” (Rommath knew that this bothered him, his father being his only family, and had bought him something every Winter Veil from the first year they had met.)

“Well that’s...” Neeluu faltered. Kael looked at her oddly, and leaned over to speak quietly to her.

“It isn’t anything to fret over,” Astalor said hurriedly. “Don’t be upset.”

“I’m not,” Neeluu said. “Not at all.” She looked up, smiling brightly. “Perhaps I should share how Thalorien spent _his_ Winter Veil, hmm?” 

Thalorien, it turned out, how gotten very drunk on Winter Veil, and Neeluu, as any younger sibling, delighted in regaling them with a frankly thrilling adventure involving exactly three Silvermoon guards, a Dawnblade, a shield, and an enchanted broom. The Warden was furious and had Thalorien sent back to Quel’Danas before New Year, and surprisingly few people had learned of the near scandal, being told only that the Swordbearer had taken suddenly ill. Kael called Thalorien an inspiration.

(Rommath later learned that Kael had taken Neeluu shopping immediately after brunch, and that night had a splendid gift of an elaborate astrolabe delivered to Astalor’s apartments. The attached card read _Please accept this terribly belated Winter Veil gift. I would so love to be friends. Yours, Neeluu._ )

* * *

_Dearest brother,_

_I pray this letter finds you safe and well. Aldaron has been invited the New Year banquet in the city, and I've rushed through my work to be sure to have enough time to finish this letter, so that he might bring it to you for the holiday. I know you detest surprises but I do hope you like this one._

_Sunsail is marvelous. Quel'Danas had ferries, but Sunsail Anchorage has truly massive ships. It is a small port, as I'm sure you know, but there is always a ship docking or casting off. Cargo comes and goes at a truly frightening pace, and the sailors and dockworkers move frantically. I spent much of my time in the harbormaster's office healing sprains and breaks. The arms see the worst of it but there was a horribly nasty broken leg last week. Aldaron says that before my arrival, he splint the men and gave them liquor for the pain. I know it was all the poor man could do, but it seems dreadfully savage. Sunsail has not had a priestess in some time; the rumors of sailors and their impropriety towards women has scared away my sisters, and there are few good priests willing to work at so far a posting. The men I have met thus far are not bad, and you know, dear brother, that should they look indecently toward me, I am more than capable of giving them a good thump on the head. Sunsail is the lifeblood of all of our trade and if her men are not healthy, where will we get even a third of the goods to which we are accustomed? I'm sure we could make do with those goods that come from the Eastern Kingdoms, but we should never see Kalimdoran spices again, nor good kaldorei dyes. I am not learned in politics as you are, dear brother, but even I understand the unrest that would follow such an economic collapse._

_If Quel'Danas opened my heart, dear brother, Sunsail is opening my mind. Truly, I am meeting people from all over the world and seeing things I have never seen. A great many sailors are humans, and I have an excellent chance to practice my Common with them. (It is not good, I'm afraid!) A large Kalimdoran galley arrived just the other day filled with goblins who spoke all sorts of languages, and another ship from Booty Bay carried a Tauren! Have you ever seen a Tauren, dear brother? I could not believe my eyes! His arm was as wide around as I was, and I should think nothing would hurt such a beast but he did scream when I healed the gashes on his shoulder and face! He could even speak Thalassian, albeit with a strong accent. And he had a big heavy ring in his nose! (He said it did not hurt at all.) What do you make of that, dear brother?_

_In my spare time, I am learning to repair sails and fishing nets. I sometimes did such on Quel'Danas, but it is much different for a large vessel than for a ferry. I receive instruction from the sailors' wives and daughters, who are delighted to finally have a priestess in the harbor. I confess it makes me feel somewhat guilty and almost sinful at how delighted they are with me, as though I am someone of greater importance. They offer me welcome gifts of food and blankets to ward off the chill of the sea, much more than I feel is necessary for a single person. I am determined to remain humble but I do not want to offend. I have written the Grand Magister and asked his advice. For now, I have taken to stowing the gifts in the harbormaster's office for use with my patients and the poor._

_I know your archmage exams are soon, dear brother, and I pray you will do well. If there is anyone who deserves the title of Archmage it is you. No one has studied harder or sacrificed more. I pray for Prince Kael'thas and Astalor, and your new friends, the Ladies Jaina, Capernian, and Neeluu. Please do tell me when you are to take your exam, brother. I will light a candle for you and pray twice as hard, Light willing, your next letter will bear the signature Archmage Rommath._

_All my love,_

_Auriel_

* * *

“This is really fantastic,” Aethas commented, examining the astrolabe. It had been some time since Astalor had received it, and he was still enamored with it. A sphere covered in loops of metal, astrolabes (to many non-mages) were for navigating the seas and charting the courses of the stars. Rommath wasn’t entirely sure what this very particular astrolabe did, but arcane astrolabes were found all over Dalaran. Many served the same function as their non-arcane cousins, others plotted courses of magical energy, and still more seemed to be some sort of puzzle not unlike the kinds Neeluu solved every week with Jaina, with skittering runes along the metals that glowered if lined up correctly. 

“I sent her a card and an arcane trap box as a thank you,” Astalor told them.

“Will this one try and bite her fingers off?” Rommath quipped.

“Of course not!” Astalor cried indignantly. “That was only once!”

“It still hurt.”

“You all gather in the common area to study, don’t you?” Aethas asked suddenly.

Rommath raised an eyebrow. “Sometimes. Or the Legerdemain Lounge.”

“There’s rarely any studying, from what I’ve observed,” Astalor said with a laugh.

“No, there’s _always_ studying _,_ ” Rommath corrected. “It’s _Kael_ who gets everyone off track.”

Astalor laughed again. “I’ve noticed that too.”

By the Sunwell was he thankful for Astalor Bloodsworn. Rommath did not know how he could have gotten by without the man. When they had first met, Rommath had thought Astalor bore some similarity to his youngest brother, but very quickly those similarities faded. Where Sorrem was loud and obnoxious, Astalor was timid but undoubtedly devoted. The few minutes here and there they could find for a quick game or a chat were one of the grounding features of Rommath’s week. With Astalor, he wasn’t constantly on guard, reigning in insanity or his own emotions. Astalor didn’t make him weak at the knees or tongue tied, and Astalor didn’t give him a headache as Rommath tried, for the third time that week, to explain that no, they could not, in fact, blow Telestra off and do something else (the something else usually involving alcohol, but one time involving some very suspect purchases from the alley behind the Militant Mystic). 

Aethas had fallen silent, his lips pressed into a line that opened only to drink from his glass. Astalor moved on. “I heard,” he said, “about a wonderful new book that’s just been published.”

“Is it about the Light?” Rommath said flatly. (It was his only problem with the man. Between his sister and Astalor, Rommath had had enough Light talk for his entire life and whatever lay beyond it.)

Astalor blinked. “No, actually. You’re thinking of _Shandre’s Lament_ －”

“Oh, don’t tell him about that,” Aethas groaned. “Rommath, get out. It will be better if you do, go on.”

“Oh. Another one of your questionable reading materials?”

“I object to that,” Astalor started.

“You shouldn’t. Your room is filled with highly objectionable reading material,” Rommath pointed out.

“My books are neither objectionable nor questionable,” Astalor snipped. “Just because neither of you ever learned to _feel_ －”

“I will leave,” Rommath warned him. 

“I didn’t come here to talk about feelings,” Aethas whined.

Astalor sighed and muttered something about _savages_. Rommath rolled his eyes. 

“Dalaran is ruining all my friends,” he grumbled. “You never cared about _feelings_ back home.”

“Elves don’t _have_ feelings,” Aethas agreed.

Astalor rolled his eyes. “ _This book_ is about _the history of Dalaran_ , and it’s supposed to be quite good. I wanted to ask if either of you would like a copy when I go and purchase one.”

“Well in that case.” The corners of Rommath’s mouth twitched upwards.

“You realize you’re acting like Kael right now.” Astalor looked amused. “You do realize that?”

“And now you better understand my suffering.” Rommath feigned a look of pain.

“Nonsense. You have other friends to escape to,” Astalor quipped. “The Light of Dawn and her friends seem quite intent on their studies.”

“Is that not the most shocking thing?”

Aethas chimed in then, study being his preferred topic of conversation. “It has been quite the change, I admit,” he said, “adjusting to being a single pupil. I hardly know how to conduct myself.”

“Much the same as in the classroom.” Astalor shrugged. 

“Hopefully Runeweaver does not harp on one’s shortcomings or work too hard,” Rommath said. “Telestra…” He shook his head. “She is brilliant but mad.”

“I’m afraid we’re all mad here,” Astalor laughed. 

With a chuckle, Aethas said, “That does not bode well for me.”

“You’ve always been mad,” Astalor told him, “just in denial.” Aethas crumpled his napkin and threw it at him.

“Oh, Rommath.” Rommath looked up and followed Astalor’s gaze, sighing as he caught sight of an arcane approximation of a bird tapping at Astalor’s window. (In the Spire, he and Kael had often sent messages back and forth using such methods. Its purpose had changed little in Dalaran, and when they were apart it proved a convenient way to summon the other in case of emergencies. What Rommath considered an emergency and what Kael saw as an emergency, however... Rommath was going to smack him with a fiery hand if it was about Jaina Proudmoore again.) Annoyed, he got to his feet. “Apologies for leaving so soon. As usual, I have to attend His Royal Pain In The Ass.”

(Aethas huffed quietly. Astalor shot him a look. Rommath thought the best course of action was to feign ignorance.)

After a moment, Aethas muttered, “You say that, yet you’re still leaving.”

Rommath raised an eyebrow as he clasped his cloak over his shoulders. “Yes? Is there a problem?”

“No,” Astalor said at once. “Tell Kael I have that formula he wanted.”

“Yes, do go,” Aethas said. He was frowning, and despite sitting straight he seemed to have folded in on himself. “Go running off to _Kael’thas_.” And he made Kael’s name sound like a dirty word.

Rommath was confused. They’d just been having a good time. “What’s…” He took a step back towards the sitting room. “What’s going on?”

Astalor, growing pale, attempted to steady Aethas, or silence him, with a hand on his arm, but Aethas shook it off. “Nothing,” he muttered. “Just go.”

Rommath sat. He looked first at Astalor (who refused to meet his eyes), and at Aethas, who glared at him. “Would you mind explaining?” he asked, very calmly. He had noticed, the past few weeks, that sometimes Aethas went very quiet, and sometimes he spoke in short, clipped sentences. Rommath wasn’t stupid. He could see the correlation between Aethas’s attitude and every mention of Kael. (And it wasn’t as if Kael couldn’t be spoken of, given how big a part he was in both his and Astalor’s lives.)

Aethas scowled. “You’re intelligent,” he bit out, “and it isn’t that difficult.”

And Rommath told himself that this was his friend, this was Aethas, but his hackles raised at the venom in Aethas’s voice. “Humor me.”

Aethas drained the last of his drink and carefully set the glass on the table. When he looked at Rommath again, his eyes were hard.

“He whistles, you run.” Rommath opened his mouth to object but Aethas got there first. “That’s all you’ve ever done. So go on. Abandon me again.”

“I didn’t abandon－”

“I can count on two hands the number of times you left the Spire once you went into it!” The sudden outburst was startling but Rommath did not flinch. “I saw Astalor nearly every day! Where were you?”

Rommath set his jaw. “Doing what I was asked to do,” he said evenly.

Aethas laughed. It wasn’t a pretty sound. “You were asked to _study_ with him.” The _him_ did not need naming. 

“I did study with him,” Rommath protested. 

“As did Astalor, and that’s all Astalor did. You rode hawkstriders, and played chess, and took all your meals with him. You went on Lightdamned holidays with him!”

“So?” 

Aethas looked as if he couldn’t believe Rommath had just asked him that. “S-so? _So?_ So no one told you to play mother to an overgrown child! No one told you to forget all your friends for a narcissistic asshole! No one told you to f－” He stopped himself, face flushed, breathing hard through his nose. He looked ready to punch Rommath in the face. 

“ _Astalor_ didn’t let new accommodations and a spoiled prince turn him into an ignoble mound of hawkstrider shit.” Aethas’s frown seemed permanently etched onto his face. “He stayed my friend. You didn’t.”

Rommath bit back, with overwhelming restraint, the rage flaring inside him. “Aethas, I’ve apologized over and again for that. I just became… overwhelmed.” _Overwhelmed by Kael._

“Then why are you still doing it?” Aethas demanded. He jerked aggressively towards the window where the arcane bird had been. “Every single time he calls your name, you abandon me! You work him into every conversation － there are other people in the Lightdamned world besides Kael’thas Lightdamned Sunstrider, Rommath!” He ran a hand through his hair irritably. 

If Aethas were any other person, Rommath would have leapt across the table and personally taught him to eat fire. He was so angry right now his vision was grey at the edges, and unable to fathom where any of this was coming from. Why had Aethas never told him this? Or Astalor? (Why had he never _noticed?_ asked a voice in the back of his mind.) 

“I thought you’d be different here,” Aethas muttered. “That you would’ve grown up.” He looked away. “You’re the same selfish person you’ve always been.”

Rommath’s restraint broke.

“You could have called me out at any time, Aethas,” he snapped. “It isn’t difficult to send a fucking _letter_.” Aethas stared at him. “There was _no_ reason to wait this Lightdamned long. You just wanted to sit and cry and feel sorry for yourself. Poor Aethas, his friend was taken away to study with _the crown prince_ . I didn’t _abandon_ you. I was chosen.”

“So now you’re some noble hero?” Aethas snorted. 

“Would you have said no?” Rommath challenged. 

“I wouldn’t know,” Aethas replied icily. “They never asked me.”

Rommath made a noise of frustration. “Perhaps because you spent your every waking moment bitter and alone!” he snarled. “There were forty other arcanists in that class! Did you ever talk to any of them?”

“How could I have made any other friends?” Aethas demanded. “My _only_ friends were both selected to live in the Spire. People were only interested in how I’d gotten you there!”

“There’s that pity again!” Rommath roared. “I don’t have fucking time for this!” He shot to his feet, noting dimly that Astalor had not said a single word through all of this. The other man was sitting almost painfully still, eyes bouncing back and forth between Rommath and Aethas, and trying to sink as far as he could into the fabric of his couch.

“Go on, walk out again!” Aethas sneered. “Give _Kael’thas_ my love!”

“Why don’t I give you a Lightdamned fireball to the face?!”

“ _Go ahead!_ ”

It took everything in him to put his fist down and stomp out of Astalor’s apartment, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

When he had cooled off (which had taken the better part of a week and the burning of several things in what Capernian swore was _completely moronic, ill thought out, and not “well-ventilated,”_ _you absolute prat_ ), he sought out Astalor. It hadn’t been fair to lose his temper in Astalor’s apartment, and he knew that if he needed to apologize to anyone, it was to Astalor.

(Capernian had suggested perhaps Aethas deserved an apology too, and Rommath had snarled he would never _apologize_ to someone who’d dared insinuate he was Kael’s lapdog. “People say things in anger they don’t mean,” Capernian had replied mildly, and with a murderous look, Rommath had demanded she get dressed and leave his apartment.)

“It’s alright,” Astalor had told him at least three times. “It was bound to come to a head sooner rather than later.”

Adjusting his gloves, Rommath raised an eyebrow. “Why did you never say anything?” he asked.

“I’m not your go between,” Astalor said, frowning slightly. “I did try and get you to come with me to the Magisterium, and I did tell Aethas to contact you.” He shrugged. “But you didn’t, and he didn’t, and I wasn’t about to force you together. You were both old enough to make your own decisions and, for one reason or another, you both decided not to speak to each other. Just as you decided to scream at one another like children.”

“He _said_ －”

“I know what he said,” Astalor cut in. “You were no more kind than he. You are both at fault for what happened and I will not fix your mistakes for you.” Astalor stood firm in this. 

“It’s his mistake!”

“And yours.” He pronounced each syllable distinctly. “You are both adults.”

Rommath huffed. “I did nothing wrong,” he muttered to the cold winter air. “I attempted to rectify my mistakes. He threw that in my face and insulted me, insulted our crown prince. If _he_ would like to fix what destruction he has wrought, he is free to find me, but I have no obligation to forgive him.”

Astalor sighed and shoved his hands further into his pockets. (Like Rommath, he also found the deep chill of Dalaran discomforting, despite the centuries spent in the city. It always showed in his hands, stiff and dry, and the man had been on the hunt for the perfect glove since their first winter.) Unwilling to intervene in the matter, there was little else he could do, and Rommath took his friend’s silence to mean that he was in the right and Aethas the wrong.

* * *

“May I join you?”

Rommath, enjoying the first truly warm day of spring in the Violet Gardens, blinked in the harsh sunlight to find it had been the Lady Neeluu who had spoken. She was alone, without Jaina or Kael or even her guard, and with the sun at her back, looked nearly the physical embodiment of her title. A small pink bloom had been tucked into her hair, perhaps plucked from one of the later blooming trees. Rommath had been told at some point or another that the hard little buds that burst into beautiful, short-lived blooms were called pink hellebore.

“Of course.” He moved aside on the bench to give her space and she sat, feet crossed at the ankles like a proper lady and hands folded neatly in her lap. Unlike Jaina and Capernian, she did not smooth unseen wrinkles from her skirts, or fuss over her clothes at all, but simply sat quietly with him. 

“It’s beautiful out today,” Neeluu said conversationally. “I’ve even seen a few people without their cloaks.”

“Fools,” Rommath scoffed. “They’ll make themselves sick.”

“Perhaps,” Neeluu conceded. “I like to think of it as celebrating the spring.”

“That’s what Noblegarden is for.”

Neeluu laughed. “My, what miserable company I’ve found today!” She covered her mouth when she giggled, a gesture Rommath found both polite and endearing. 

“I never agreed to not be miserable,” he pointed out, and Neeluu pressed her hand to her lips again, stifling another giggle.

“No,” she agreed, “I suppose not.” 

They sat in companionable silence, watching students skirt through clusters of fallen hellebore blossoms, children shrieking as they played, free of their constricting winter garments. A man presented his sweetheart with a bouquet of pink flowers, newly fallen from the trees, and she blushed and plucked one from the bouquet to wear in her hair. Rommath did not let himself wonder how many girls Kael had done that with. Once he had learned of the springtime tradition, Kael presented a bouquet to a new girl for as long as the flowers bloomed, and it very often ended with him bedding them. Rommath did not like to think about it.

(He was not about thinking about it. He wasn’t.)

What if Kael were to present _him_ with a pink hellebore bouquet? He wouldn’t, but… Would he let Kael bed him? 

(Stop thinking about it.)

He wasn’t so easily won as those girls, he liked to think. He liked to think it would take a lot more than a few flowers to get him into bed, Kael’s hands ripping his robes in their impatience, and －

_Stop._

(He was thankful in that moment that he’d worn robes over his trousers, it being a simple matter to conceal any impropriety beneath the loose fabric.)

“May I ask you a personal question, Rommath?” Neeluu asked suddenly, and Rommath froze. She couldn’t have noticed, could she?

“Of… of course.”

She drew her eyes away from the gardens (no, no she hadn’t noticed anything at all) and looked at him, brows furrowed. “Pardon my intrusion, but if I may ask…” She hesitated. “Are you quite alright?”

Rommath frowned. “Beg pardon?”

“You’ve been rather… morose as of late. I’ve been a little concerned,” Neeluu admitted. Rommath raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t thought anything had been out of the ordinary. He’d been the same as he always was. The argument with Aethas (which he also was not going to think about) had upset him, and badly, but he had taken great care not to let it show amongst his friends. Not even Kael knew, and Kael knew everything about him.

(Well. Almost everything.)

He shook his head. “Just the weather,” he said. “The winter has dragged for far too long and it has made me quite restless. My apologies for worrying you.” 

Neeluu didn’t look like she quite believed him, but her good breeding would not allow her to pry further. They were not quite good enough of friends for that. “If that’s all,” she said slowly.

Rommath nodded. “I feel much better with the coming of spring,” he assured her.

When the Lady Neeluu looked at him, he felt as though she saw right through his lie, but she simply smiled. Carefully, she pulled the pink hellebore blossom from her hair and pressed it into his hand. 

“To keep your spirits high, should the days grow cold again.”

Rommath's fingers closed around the little flower, and he gave his friend a small smile. A thoughtful gift, if he'd been truthful with her. He thanked her and carefully slipped the flower in his pocket, and they descended once more into a companionable silence, a niggle of guilt for lying eating at Rommath's insides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy. So... I slept for 16 hours, got up and peed, slept for ten more hours, showered, posted the first five chapters of a story I wrote a year ago (different fandom), and then got off my ass and finished this chapter. The last part was tough.
> 
> Surprise visit from Lor'daddy! I toyed with the idea of giving Kael his own bit, but this is ultimately Rommath's fic and Kael is not allowed his own POV because fuck you, Kael, you broke Rommath's heart and joined the Legion. So instead, he wrote his dearest cousin Lor'daddy a letter lamenting (dramatically) how everyone was against him and his beloved Jaina and "help me Obi-Lor, you're my only hope," and Lor'daddy is all "uh.... this isn't a great idea, because none of your ideas are great, but... I'm a sap for romance, so..." Yes, the letter at the beginning is the letter Neeluu gives Kael.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Mean Girls voice* Rommath has a lot of feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Umbric. A lot. He's my boo. After Rommath. This website needs more Umbric.

Umbric was simply _bouncing_ on the balls of his feet. Dear Light and Sunwell, Rommath should have had another cup of coffee before agreeing to this.

“You do have a free hour here,” his apprentice had said. “It would shut Umbric up.”

“I suppose,” Rommath had sighed. He really hadn’t had a better argument. He could finally sign off on Umbric’s pet project and keep the magister from harassing both him and his apprentice, or he could sit morosely at his desk and contemplate every mistake he had ever made in his life that had brought him to this point.

(He’d rather contemplate but he supposed Umbric was the more prudent choice.)

“Rudgrinne!” Umbric called. “Duskwalker! Hurry, hurry, we don’t want to waste the Grand Magister’s time!”

Magisters scattered from their stations. Rommath thought the theatrics a little overdone, for his tastes. Beside him, his apprentice raised an eyebrow.

“We have been researching extensively since the fall of the Sunwell, Grand Magister,” Umbric said excitedly, “attempting to find a new source to sate our arcane addictions. With the Well’s restoration and the addition of the Light, we have switched our focus now to defense.”

Duskwalker, a tall elf with a severe widow’s peak, placed a large crystal on one of the many tables in the room. “We wanted to be certain Quel’Thalas would never fall again,” he told them.

“We needed something stronger than Ban’dinoriel,” Umbric continued. “Ban’dinoriel has fallen once. It could fall again.”

“That was exceedingly unlikely,” Rommath countered. “A product of deep betrayal. Ban’dinoriel has been strengthened once more, its means and secrets known by no one single person.”

“Still.” 

Rommath frowned, watching two magisters position themselves at opposite ends of the crystal. It glowed a deep, disturbing blackish violet. “What is that?”

Umbric grinned. “I have found, Grand Magister, that certain resources exist in plentiful abundance, if one knows where to look,” he said dramatically. “The Twisting Nether, for instance, is known to possess untold amounts of raw mana, though unfortunately we do not possess the tools to harvest it.”

Rommath bristled at the mention of the mana forges. “I advise you to get on with it, Magister Umbric, before you try my patience.”

“Of course, of course.” Umbric nodded to the mages at the crystal, who placed their hands upon it, and then turned back to Rommath and his apprentice. “Think, for a moment, about those who are not mages. Priests and paladins have managed to harness the powers of the Light and use them for the benefit of others. Blood mages,” he continued, with the most subtle look at Rommath, “pull the life from their very veins to empower their magic.” He paused. 

“And shadow priests,” he finished grandly, “utilize the Void.”

Erindae’s sharp intake of breath was followed by silence. Umbric’s confident grin began to waver.

“What, exactly, are you implying, Magister?” Rommath asked, his voice terrifyingly calm. 

“If we can pull from the Void as we do from the Light,” Umbric began, his words rushed, his presentation falling apart in the wake of Rommath’s disapproval, “we can assure Quel’Thalas’s－”

“Are you _mad?!_ ” Rommath narrowed his eyes. “Do you have any idea the kind of powers you are tempting?!”

“Shadow priests are able to call forth the Void to use it in battle quite effectively.” Duskwalker stepped in. “Used with caution, they are not corrupted by its influence.”

Rommath opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment his attention was caught by a tearing － an actual tearing, like that of paper － in the actual fabric of reality. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he broke out in a cold sweat. Jerking his head, he found the source of the noise: the magisters with the crystal. 

The air above them looked as though it were being poked full of holes, in some places slashed with dozens of small knives. The same deep, blackish-purple as the crystal pulsated behind the tears.

“ _What are you doing?_ ” Rommath screamed. Umbric, unperturbed, watched the scene with wide eyes. 

“Trying to harness the Void, Grand Magister,” he said distractedly. Beside him, Duskwalker was furiously taking notes, his quill moving so quickly the ink bled.

Everything in the room felt wrong. The purplish light escaping from the tears in reality, the awestruck eyes of the magisters. Rommath’s stomach was doing loops and his brain was spinning.

“ _Stop! Stop, I command you to stop!_ ”

The ripping noise faded, and the air smoothed itself back to the familiar Sanctum hall. The surrounding magisters looked around in confusion, at each other, at Umbric, at Rommath. Umbric whirled on Rommath.

“I forbid further study into the Void!” Rommath shouted, before Umbric could protest. “This is reckless and evil magic! You endanger all of Silvermoon!”

“Grand Magister, we have barely begun to understand－”

“You will not understand in this city!” He fixed them all with steely glare. “I want it all destroyed. All of it! Your research, your instruments － anything connected to this Lightforsaken research.”

“I will call for a priest to purify this chamber, Grand Magister,” his apprentice said quickly, her face pale.

“Destroy?” Duskwalker protested. “Grand Magister, some of these documents go back centuries!”

“If you don’t destroy it, _I will burn it_ ,” Rommath threatened, calling forth a ball of flame. 

* * *

“Come now, Rommath, sit down.”

Rommath growled and threw himself into a chair. Theron was absolutely impossible to deal with. _Sit down_. 

Theron poured himself a glass of dark liquor (some sort of apple or barley brew, if Rommath had to guess. A ranger’s drink) and poured one for Rommath.

“No thank you,” Rommath hissed.

“I insist,” Theron said pleasantly. He took a deep drought from his own glass and looked pointedly at Rommath until he, too, drank. (It was barley. It was not to Rommath’s taste.)

“May I speak now?” 

“You may.”

“One of my magisters submitted a research study for my approval,” Rommath told him. He gripped his glass tightly.

“As they do,” Theron said mildly. Rommath glared. He was not in the mood for the man’s snark.

“Upon reviewing the study, I had it shut down and the research destroyed.” Rommath took another sip of his drink, ignoring his distaste. “I am informing you as a matter of security.”

Theron frowned. “What did it concern?”

“That’s not important,” Rommath snapped. “What is important is that it’s been dealt with. The magisters in question have been suspended from the Sanctum until further notice.”

Theron’s frown deepened. Rommath scowled. “What?”

A beat. A deep sigh. “When are you going to start trusting me, Rommath?” Theron’s voice was quiet.

Rommath stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”

Theron swirled the liquor in his glass. “Kael…” He took a breath and started over. “Our late prince entrusted us to work together. And yet for nearly ten years, Rommath, you have fought me every step of the way. Do you see why it’s been difficult for Halduron and myself to trust you?”

Rommath didn’t want to talk about Kael with Theron. He really didn’t. 

“Trust is not given,” he replied, his voice low. “It is earned.”

“And I’ve done nothing to earn yours?” It was an honest question, not accusatory in the least, and Rommath could appreciate that. If he were honest with himself, he _did_ trust Theron, somewhat. 

“You did not have me assassinated,” Rommath said quietly, “when the Burning Legion came.” He could not say _when Kael died._

“The truth? Halduron and I discussed it,” Theron told him openly. 

“I don’t blame you,” Rommath admitted. “I would have ordered my death the same night.”

Theron took another drink, watching him. “I believed you’d done too much for us to be against us,” he said simply. “And when you did not run, every day that you do not run, you step further from any doubts that may still linger.”

Rommath was silent. The condensation from his glass pooled on his fingers, spilled over and ran down to drip on the table. 

It wasn’t that he did not trust Theron. No, he would not sit and have the heart to heart Theron seemed to desperately want, because he trusted no one with that much of himself; but he _did_ trust the man to keep the country safe. His leadership, under unprecedented emergency, had saved thousands of lives, and his new plan to join the Horde once the traitor Dar’Khan Drathir had been dealt with would do much to secure Quel’Thalas’s safety should such strife ever befall them again. It wasn’t that he did not respect Theron, because Theron’s decisions _were_ respectable, and aside from his tendencies to indulge in liquor and bloodthistle, _he_ was respectable. Polite, honest, willing to put himself on the front lines, and charismatic. Good breeding, humble, and made it a point to know everyone’s names, from his assistant to the newest cleaning girl. 

No. What pissed Rommath off about Lor’themar Theron was how unfairly _lucky_ he had been. When so many had lost their families and their lives, Theron had not only jumped from Ranger Lord to _Regent_ Lord of Quel’Thalas, but his beloved was still alive, and with her he had started a family. (There were few secrets in the kingdom Rommath did not know. He had known about Lor’themar and Liadrin since he was a student in Dalaran, and he had known about the little girl the moment she had come home with Liadrin from the Outland.) It wasn’t _fair_. It wasn’t _right_. Why had the Light looked upon Lor’themar Theron with favor, blessed him with a family unscathed, and yet from Rommath had ripped not only his parents and siblings but Kael too? Why was Theron more deserving?

Theron had come out of the Scourge and the Burning Legion and lost only an eye. Rommath had lost everything. And he hated Theron for it. 

“I hope you know that you can come to me, Rommath,” Theron was saying. “I will listen without judgement. I am a fair man, and we are a team.”

“I really can’t fucking stand you,” Rommath said suddenly. And then he exploded. He told Theron everything, all the unfairness, and how on top of it all, with Kael’s death, Theron lost his one terrible secret of their relation, now unable to be proven. He shouted until he’d blown himself out and the most frustrating thing of all was that Theron did not react in the slightest.

(Theron’s impassivity pissed him off all the more.)

“Is that what you wanted to hear?” Rommath spat. It shamed him, had always shamed him, that his dislike of the other elf had always been less than professional. The hurt he had felt when Kael had named Theron Regent Lord had morphed into flagrant bitterness over the years, as Theron accumulated what Rommath himself had been denied.

( _“Why did you choose him?” Rommath had demanded. “Why is Lor’themar Theron the better choice?”_

_And Kael had looked at him then, his eyes a steely, determined blue, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Dalah’norfal,” he’d started. My dearest friend. “I have the utmost confidence in your abilities to lead our_ _sin’dorei_ _in our hour of need.”_

_“Then why Theron?”_

_Kael had paused, and then squeezed his shoulder before letting it drop. “He is my cousin.”_ )

He loathed the man.

“Yes,” Theron said simply. He sat forward in his chair, his eye resting easily on the Grand Magister. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and even. 

“It isn’t fair, you’re right,” he agreed. “Halduron has often reminded me of my good fortune, and it keeps me humble.”

Little happened in the kingdom without Rommath’s notice. Halduron Brightwing had on more than one occasion screamed at their Regent Lord, his fury a near tangible thing. The Scourge had left Halduron with terrifying nightmares, had ripped from him his wife and left her an undead soldier in the Undercity. Theron had escaped with only the loss of his eye, his _companion_ the Lady Liadrin unharmed. Only a few nights ago, they had nearly come to blows over Theron’s latest bout of good fortune, his daughter Salandria.

“I was wondering when you, too, would have words with me,” Theron confessed. 

“I apologize if I’ve kept you waiting,” Rommath said icily. Theron gave him a small smile.

“Anger isn’t healthy, Grand Magister,” he said gently. “Perhaps if you had gotten it out sooner, our relationship would－”

“We do not have to be friends,” Rommath growled. 

“No,” Theron conceded. “But you must agree that it would perhaps be a bit easier if we were _friendly_.” 

Rommath said nothing. He drained the last of his liquor and set the glass down with rather more force than necessary. Theron drank from his own quietly, and for several moments they sat in silence.

“I wasn’t close,” the Regent Lord said, his eye not meeting Rommath’s and instead looking somewhere to the left. “To Kael’thas. Not really.”

Rommath snorted. “Leave the telling of lies to me, Theron,” he muttered.

“Honestly,” Theron insisted. “My cousin married his cousin, and we saw each other only rarely. I’m unsure why, but Kael’thas was taken with me. He always sought me out. Liked to visit my father’s estate as often as he could get away with it. I don’t know if you remember.”

Rommath remembered. The sheer insanity that would surround an outing with “dear cousin Lor,” the number of Silvermoon guards in his escort. The loneliness Rommath would feel until Kael would return, breathless and starry eyed, with stories of hunting and exploring and sleeping under the stars. 

“I suppose he took to me because, like him, I was uninterested in court and the city, and I avoided every event I could.” He fiddled with a quill laying across his desk － no, not a quill, but an ordinary feather. 

“A wonderful candidate to run the kingdom in his absence,” Rommath drawled. “Truly, an inspiration.”

Theron went on as if he had not spoken. “I didn’t…” He sighed. Took rather a large gulp of liquor. Began again. “Kael’thas was my junior by several centuries, and… I suppose I merely… _tolerated_ him. Rather than _enjoyed_ him.” He placed the feather carefully to the side. “Sometimes I wonder, if I had taken the time with him… If I had _taught_ him. Adored him as he adored me...” He scrubbed a hand over his face before turning to look back at Rommath. “Perhaps he would have turned out differently? Perhaps he would still be alive.”

Rommath sat frozen. He often expected long and arduous conversations when he spoke to Theron, but in no world had he expected this. No one spoke of Kael anymore, except to curse his name. If the prince still had supporters, they kept themselves good and quiet. Rommath often thought of himself as Kael’s sole mourner. 

He did not expect to hear Lor’themar Theron, of all people, speaking of Kael. Expressing _regrets_ towards Kael. Kael had been Rommath’s sun for hundreds of years, but he had cast his light on all corners of Quel’Thalas, and he had known the Regent Lord since he was but a babe. From his outward demeanor there was little to suggest that Theron felt anything towards Kael alive or dead, but here… his face suddenly bore the tired, lined look of a man who had the world on his shoulders, and much of that world had been rebuilt by his strength alone.

“Wh-why are you telling me this?” Rommath stammered, and he hated himself for the wobble in his voice. Theron turned his single tired eye to the Grand Magister’s, his face a mix of too many emotions to read.

“I believe you understand,” the Regent Lord murmured. “I believe you understand, and feel the same.”

Rommath stiffened in his chair. He did understand. How many times had he desperately, painstakingly, masochistically gone over his life, trying to find each and every point where he could have, should have done something different? Something to garner a different result in his prince, to lead to Kael still living and breathing right now in the Spire? 

"I've rejected the petition to remove the statues of Kael'thas," Theron said quietly. Rommath stared at him. He didn't know if Theron expected a thank you, or to be questioned again, and in all honesty, Rommath had no voice with which to do so. He had stormed in here furious with Umbric and intent on telling the Regent Lord as little as possible, and Theron had gone and done _this_. He stood up abruptly. He needed air. He needed to leave.

“It’s alright.” Theron leaned back in his chair, liquor in hand but not drinking. “I understand as well as most the need to throw oneself into work.” He chuckled, a hollow sound. “I’ve been doing so for ten years, after all.” He did drink now, a long, deep gulp that drained the glass but he did not put it down. “Or drink, as the case may be.”

“You can’t drown yourself in drink.” The words were automatic, said countless times in response to the countless walk-ins to Theron at his liquor cabinet, pouring himself yet another glass of a liquid of unknown potency.

“No,” Theron agreed, “you can’t.” And Rommath wasn’t sure if he spoke of himself or of Rommath, because he had taken great pains to ensure no one knew when he’d added a little _extra_ to his coffee (or coffee to his _extras_ , as it were), but there were spies everywhere in the Spire, not all of them Rommath’s, and Theron was looking at him but he didn’t elaborate and Rommath didn’t ask.

“Take care of yourself, Grand Magister,” Theron implored. 

“I care for myself just fine,” Rommath said tersely. 

“All the better.” Theron smiled tiredly at him. “And Rommath?”

_Grand Magister_ , Rommath corrected silently.

“Should you find yourself wishing to discuss… what we’ve spoken of today, please. My door is always open to you. Here or at home.” 

Rommath stared at him. What sort of angle was that?

He wrenched the door open and left.

* * *

A book lay on the desk in his study. A note, written in his apprentice’s neat hand, told him Umbric’s research had been disposed of, along with “that abominable Void crystal,” but before its destruction, she thought he may want to see what she had found among Umbric’s things.

The book, it turned out, was a journal, written in the spindly hand of someone of good breeding, and as Rommath flipped through it, he discovered notes on “speaking to the Void” and Void crystals, the siphoning of Void powers. By the end, the writing had descended into near illegibility, the ink thick and blotchy, and what words he could make out were madness.

The journal belonged to High Astromancer Solarian. 

Rommath felt cold. How had this filth come to be in Silvermoon? How had Umbric gotten his hands on Solarian’s notes? Who would _dare_ bring before him one of the very things responsible for corrupting his beloved prince?

The journal caught fire before he even drew breath, flames licking out from his fingers and spreading over the cracked leather cover, feeding hungrily on the dry parchment. He watched it burn with an unholy righteousness.

Solarian had been only one of many. He’d had no idea where she’d come from, but by the time Kael had invited him to the fortress Tempest Keep, she had already wormed her way into Kael’s good graces. He’d had no idea _what_ she was, honestly. Mage, priest, warlock, she could have been any of them with her control of the Void. He had asked Kael, _warned_ Kael, but Kael would hear nothing against her.

_High Astromancer Solarian is as vital to our success as you,_ he’d said, but his eyes had been glassy and his skin pale. 

_The Void is unlike the Light,_ Rommath had snarled. _You cannot bend it to your will!_

Kael had looked at him then, and his grin had chilled Rommath to the bone. _My dear Rommath,_ _anything_ _can and_ _will_ _be bent to serve the sin’dorei._

“Grand Magister!”

Rommath became aware of the arcane smothering his hands as his apprentice flew to his side. Pulled from his memories slowly, as though being dredged from a long ways underwater, he could only watch in silence as the spell snuffed out the flames that had begun crawling up his sleeves. Her quick fingers smoothed a soft, cooling mist over his skin. The journal lay in ashes on his desk, having been consumed so quickly that not even an ember remained.

His apprentice pulled a jar from a cabinet to his left, clearly labeled as was everything in his study, and applied a liberal amount of green gel to his hands and the burned portions of his arms, muttering to herself all the while.

“－losing control like that,” she grumbled, smoothing a dollop of gel (clean and fresh smelling) along the space between his thumbs and index fingers. “Who burns a book they’re still holding?”

He helped her by rolling his sleeves, the singed, uneven edges making it difficult. She glared at him.

“Were you trying to immolate yourself?” she demanded.

“I may have taken things a tad too far,” Rommath said thickly.

His apprentice rolled her eyes and replaced the lid on the burn gel, glaring at the shiny green spots on his hands. It was good enough work until he’d been seen by a priest. 

“I thought you’d have wanted to keep it,” she muttered, indicating the ash pile. “For the Forbidden Library. It’s fascinating, if insane.”

“No!” His reply came with so much force that Erindae nearly dropped the jar of burn gel. 

“Er. No, no.” He flicked his hand at the ash, which vanished. “It’s too dangerous, and we’ve no use for it. I do not want something so vile in Silvermoon.”

Erindae nodded, eyebrows raised. “Let me fetch Kath’mar. I believe he’s free.”

Kath’mar and Rommath had always been at odds but the High Priest refused to indulge in gossip and was unlikely to ask questions. “Yes,” Rommath agreed, “please do.”

“Do not move,” his apprentice said sternly. Rommath held up his sticky hands, frowning.

“How would I get anywhere with these?”

“You would manage, sir.” His apprentice dashed out, though there was little time to for Rommath think on this latest slip in his composure, as Kath’mar’s study was next door, and his apprentice returned within minutes with the High Priest in tow.

“Priests would be out of a job without you fire mages,” Kath’mar said by way of greeting.

“Funny. I would have thought the Burning Legion created _more_ jobs,” Rommath deadpanned.

“You would think,” Kath’mar drawled, pushing the sleeves of his robes up in a manner that screamed his low birth. He held out his hands impatiently. “Shockingly, few elves have rushed to fill the positions created by the multitudes of deaths. Something about trauma and fel corruption, I believe.”

Rommath resisted the urge to roll his eyes and allowed the High Priest to examine him. The Lady Liadrin had appointed Kath’mar and while he was a superb healer, he was fervently devoted to Theron and had a dry, black sense of humor that Rommath found off-putting.

“You needn’t have scorched your own arm open to learn anatomy, Grand Magister,” Kath’mar muttered. Rommath winced as the priest’s hands began to glow and he felt his skin begin to knit itself back together. “I would be more than happy to supply you a fresh cadaver.”

“I’ll have to decline,” Rommath hissed, teeth clenched through the sting of accelerated healing.

“Not from Quel’Danas, of course,” Kath’mar went on, working his way down to Rommath’s hands. “Unless you wish to become fel’dorei like our departed prince.”

(Rommath clenched his teeth and breathed very hard through his nose. Unlike the rest of polite society, Kath’mar made no secret that he believed Rommath to be a traitor. He did not gossip, but he did like to remind Rommath of his belief whenever the two crossed paths.)

“There you are.” Kath’mar straightened. “Good as new. You should have no trouble with those fingers, but if you do, I’m right next door.”

Rommath nodded. Next time, he’d rather take his chances with the burn gel.

“Oh, and Erindae?” Kath’mar had turned away from Rommath, his sleeves still rolled messily up his arms. Rommath’s apprentice raised her eyebrows in acknowledgement. “That pendant of yours is quite lovely. It brings out your eyes.”

His apprentice blinked. “Er. Thank you, High Priest.” She gave him a small bow and he laughed.

“I’ve told you before, there’s no need to bow to me.” He smiled at her before turning to Rommath, his face quickly becoming a mask of disapproval. “Grand Magister.”

Rommath returned the look. “High Priest.” He watched Kath’mar lope out, frowning, and flicked his hand at the door to close it behind him. His apprentice had already returned to preparing him his evening coffee, interrupted when she’d entered to find him (slightly) afire.

“I’ll have to go back to the kitchens,” she was muttering. “Hopefully there’s still－”

“Erindae,” Rommath said sharply. “If you allow yourself to be courted by that boor, I will dismiss you immediately.”

Erindae burst into giggles. “Are you giving me orders about my personal life now, Grand Magister?” She placed the steaming cup before him.

“I am.”

If she hadn’t been his employee, Rommath was sure his apprentice would’ve had a few choice words for him. As it were, she was, and all she said was, “Rest assured, sir. I would sooner immolate myself and dive into the Void before I let a man like that anywhere near my person. Some of us still have good taste” And that gave him a good laugh.

* * *

Rommath was not one to seek out company. Company involved people and Rommath did not like people. Perhaps he had gone soft in the wake of his sister’s death. (He _had_ gone soft, though he refused to admit it. He’d attempted to _pray_ the past few nights. If he could no longer be close to his sister in life, perhaps he could seek comfort in her through the Light.) Perhaps he had always been soft, in the secret part of himself that he showed no one else. The part of himself who’d fallen at first sight for a spoiled prince with golden hair and eyes blue as the sky. (He would have followed his prince across the stars…)

When he did crave company, rarely as that was, he’d never needed more than Kim’alah or the cats who’d come before her. Curled on his couch with a thick tome, cat in his lap (occasionally playing with his hair, as one kitten decades ago had loved to do), he’d never really _needed_ more than that. 

(Kael would have made it perfect… but of course fate or luck or whomever decided these things had never seen fit to give him _that_.) 

Tonight he was restless. Kim’alah purred at his side, eyes squeezed shut and her tail over her nose, but he couldn’t focus on the book in his lap and his tea had gone cold. He couldn’t get comfortable, the sentences spun in his head. 

He just didn’t want to be at home.

Sighing, he left a window open for Kim’alah and food in her bowl, threw on a cloak (“Mrow?” Kim’alah protested), and left.

* * *

It was not usual to set foot on Quel’Danas late at night, not without cause, but he was the Grand Magister and the Dawnblade gave him no trouble. Not even Halduron was skulking around, being posted on the isle for the week, and Rommath counted that as a small blessing. He wasn’t sure if he sought the comfort of the living or the solace of the dead but he preferred to choose for himself.

The memorial and his sister’s grave were quiet this time of night, the only sound the wind in the trees. A lamp burned brightly before the plaque ( _In honor of those whose blood was shed to secure the survival of our people. Remember those brothers and sisters who made the ultimate sacrifice. Remember the Sunwell._ ) and as always, Rommath’s eyes searched for _Auriel Bloodsworn_ , heart hammering until he’d found her, before he really felt settled. He knew the carefully carved words as well as he knew her face, and he brought his hands together, eyes closed, and _saw_ her behind his eyelids.

He wasn’t praying. Not really. This wasn’t what devotion was. But here, at his sister’s grave, he felt more connected to her than anywhere else in Quel’Thalas, and her face shone clearer in his mind. So like his own, the high, angled cheekbones, the almond shape of her eyes, soft where his own were sharp. The long silken hair, dark as the night sky, pulled back tightly when he’d last saw her. She’d been in her armor, the black and red plate of the Blood Knights, her face pink and split open in a grin, surrounded by her students. Her sword had hung strapped to her back, the blade seemingly too large and heavy for so lithe an elf. How such a large sword had been lost in battle… 

Had she looked like that as she’d charged into battle against the Legion? Bastard sword raised, her face a mask a fury under her winged helm? How the lesser demons － the imps, the felguards － and the felbloods must have feared her as she slaughtered through their ranks, protected as she was from their caustic demon blood by her priestly beginnings. Sadistically, he wondered what had actually been enough to do her in. He’d seen his sister fight. He hoped she’d taken it out with her. He knew, deep down, she probably had. 

“Rommath.”

Rommath opened his eyes with a jerk, twisting so fast to look over his shoulder he nearly fell. But it was only Astalor, looking tired and drawn, a bundle in one hand. 

“Sorry for startling you.” He even managed a small grin. “I thought you’d heard me.”

Rommath shook his head. “I was… reminiscing.”

Astalor approached him, nodding. “You’re here often,” he said. It was not a question, merely an observation, but Rommath answered him nonetheless.

“My sister is here. I feel… more at peace,” he admitted. “I used to seek her counsel when I was lost, and now…”

Astalor bit his lip. “I know,” he said gently. “I feel much the same.”

Rommath knew it must be harder for his friend. Rommath lived in Silvermoon, but Astalor, for now, lived at the site where his wife was buried and died. It must be a constant thought in his mind.

“I come here every night,” his friend went on, “before I retire for the evening. I tell Auriel about the work we’re doing, and how I miss her... I know it’s silly…” He trailed off.

Rommath shook his head. Perhaps long ago, when he was young and stupid, he would have mocked someone for talking a dead person. The dead were dead. Until they weren’t. Until the Scourge, and the undead. Until he’d lost Kael. Until he’d lost his sister. 

“It’s not,” he told Astalor. “I’m not sure what happens when we die. Not anymore.” He looked back at the memorial, the grave with its heap of flowers. “I feel something when I come here. I’m not sure if it’s the Light or the Sunwell or… _souls_ .” He placed a hand on Astalor’s shoulder. “But it’s something good, I think. Maybe it’s her.” (Light, he was going to cry now, wasn’t he?) “She’d like to know how you are. How _everyone_ is.”

Astalor’s eyes looked watery. He unwrapped the little bundle, producing a holy candle and a bit of fruit. The candle he placed carefully under the plaque, clearing away the flammable flowers, and lit it with a bit of flint. 

“And you,” he said after a moment. He offered a piece of fruit to Rommath. “She worried about you, you know.”

Rommath snorted. “Me? I sat in the Spire all day while she fought demons and the undead, and she worried for _me_?”

Astalor nodded, his eyes on the memorial. “She always told me she felt you carried a great sadness within you,” he confided. “She was worried it would consume you.”

Rommath bit into the fruit. It was one of the sweet Quel’Danas sunfruits, so ripe it was almost rotten. “Of course I did,” he said mildly. “I buried my entire family after the Scourge. She buried them with me.”

“No.” Astalor chewed his own sunfruit, the juice running down his chin. He wiped his face with the cloth he’d carried it in before speaking again. “She said you’d been like that for as long as she could remember, that you weren’t like that before you went off to school.”

Rommath said nothing, chewing slowly. He stared at _Auriel Bloodsworn_.

Astalor shrugged. “Said you never talked about it, and she hoped you would some day.” He quickly drew the cloth to his face before the fruit juice ran down his neck. 

Rommath grimaced. He didn’t want to talk about this anymore. He hadn’t wanted to learn this. _Why do you show me something new every time I visit you?_

“I should leave,” he said abruptly. “I don’t want to intrude.”

Astalor raised an eyebrow. “You’re not－ Have I said something to offend?”

“No.” Rommath shook his head. “Not at all.” He pinched Astalor’s impromptu napkin and used a clean side to wipe his own mouth and fingers. “Thank you,” he said. “And do eat something more than fruit for dinner.”

Astalor stole his napkin back. “Mind how you go,” he said before sinking to his knees before the memorial.

Rommath shoved his hands deep in his pockets as he walked away, a frown etched on his face. He had never told anyone about his feelings for Kael. Not a single soul. And in the span of fifteen days, he’d learned that not only had Aethas Sunreaver known, but his sister had suspected. Perhaps not about Kael but… 

He found himself wondering what would have happened if he had told Auriel about Kael. He wondered not for the first time if Auriel had ever learned to heal broken hearts, and if she could have healed his. If he would have let her. 

Sighing, he rode his hawkstrider back to Dawnstar Village, a sobering twenty minute jaunt. He came to Quel’Danas often enough now that the stable hands lent him the same hawkstrider when asked, and the bird cried when he handed over the reins. He heard Neeluu’s Dal’dorei chirrup in answer and stomped off towards the Warden’s manor, hoping Captain Flamekissed was stationed elsewhere so he wouldn’t have to put up with the man’s snark.

_I’m sorry I never told you about Kael._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some news for you. There are literally TWO named void elves in the entire game who aren't Alleria. One of them is Umbric. Duskwalker is the instructor in Telogrus Rift. (Rudgrinne is my own void elf. I decided I can't steal a random elf from lore because they are very obviously not void elves in-game.) Like... Blizz, wtf.
> 
> The void elves happened in two stages. One was the outlawing of the studying of Void magic, the second was banishment. Solarian is a boss in Tempest Keep who may have provided inspiration for void elves as a whole, because she has this weird Void aesthetic and turns into a voidwalker during the fight. I made her the (first) major source of Umbric's research, and because she did her weird experiments in Outland, it's not implausible that she used something like void crystals in her own research.
> 
> Rommath has now had a heart to heart with both men of the Triumvirate and 2/4 of the main leaders of Quel'Thalas (he's 1/5 of the leaders but he's kind of having a heart to heart with himself this whole fic). Maybe he'll even call Lor'themar Lor! XD
> 
> Kath'mar is an interesting character. When Liadrin shed the title of High Priestess because she lost the Light/is murdering Scourge/becomes the Blood Matriarch, there's kind of not a High Priest anymore? So I made one. Kath'mar is this weird ass elf priest who, after Silvermoon joins the Horde and the Magisters/Farstriders/Blood Knights are basically rioting over WHAT THE FUCK IS THE RIGHT WAY, runs around mind controlling people and preaching The Church Of Lor'themar. I'm not even kidding. I like him.
> 
> Halduron/Velonara reference comes from another Tales From Silvermoon fic, [Little Lynx](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24211186).
> 
> Lor'themar, his relationship with Liadrin, and his new daughter Salandria come from another Tales From Silvermoon fic, [Family](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24420763/chapters/58915177).


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rommath has a disturbing dream and Kim'alah (unwillingly) goes on an adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! In the past five days, I've had a migraine for four of them. I have used this time to dwell on every mistake I have ever made, as one does, and cuddle with my cat.
> 
> Also, two chapters in a row in the present? I spoil myself.

“You’re here late, Grand Magister. This is unexpected.”

Rommath couldn’t catch a break.

Schooling his face into a look of neutrality, Rommath regarded Captain Flamekissed coolly. “Problem, Captain?”

Flamekissed, back straight and feet planted firmly, looked back at Rommath through slightly narrowed eyes. His dark hair had been pulled into a high tail, his winged helm flanking his ears and denoting his rank. His jaw was set, and Rommath was reminded of the first time he had challenged Flamekissed’s authority, when Theron had been appointed Regent Lord. Flamekissed had not liked that.

(He had insisted on accompanying Theron to speak with the Warden. _Anasterian did not require an escort_ , Flamekissed had hissed, glaring at Rommath as one might a bug on the bottom of one’s boot. _We do things differently now_ , Rommath had growled. _Where the Regent Lord goes, I go._ And with fire in his eyes, Flamekissed had stood aside and allowed Rommath entry to the office, glaring daggers at his back.)

“What business have you at this hour, Grand Magister? I was not made aware of postings other than the Ranger General.” 

Flamekissed and his Dawnblade operated in a grey area. Though they were, technically, part of the military and therefore subject to Halduron Brightwing’s command, decree made long ago by Dath’Remar Sunstrider had rendered them effectively an elite unit for the defense of the Sunwell and the protection of its Warden. The Wardens themselves also lived in this grey area, having no political power and yet seen by all as the guardian of the most holy of holies. With the destruction and subsequent rebirth of the Sunwell and the death of House Sunstrider, this position had only grown more muddied, the Lady Neeluu involving herself more in the affairs of Silvermoon as a source of inspiration and hope to the people; and her Dawnblades, in Rommath’s opinion, had grown cocky for it.

“I was not aware that my business was your concern, Captain,” he said icily. “Kindly stand aside so that I may retire for the evening.” 

(He would have simply wrenched the door open and bypassed Flamekissed altogether, but the spellblade stood directly in his path, prohibiting entrance to the Warden’s home and, by extension, his old bedroom.)

Glaring, Flamekissed placed his gloved hand on the elaborate handle, a series of _woosh_ es and arcane _ping_ s sounding at his touch. A lock clicked, and the captain pulled the great door wide with a scowl.

“Good night, Captain.” Rommath wasn’t inclined to be polite to the man, and never had been, but it gave him some small sense of pleasure to watch the frown deepen on the spellblade’s face as he stepped over the threshold. 

* * *

Rommath slept badly. He had resisted the allure of Kael’s old bedroom (he was an adult － he did not need a security blanket in the form of his prince’s bed, he told himself), but even here in his bedroom, it was fruitless. In his dreams, he saw his sister, her armor golden like the Light itself, her sword painfully bright. She bore down on an veritable army of undead demons, abominable terrorguards with dripping spines, packs of oozing imps and rabid bilescourge that tore at her hair and armor, and flaming infernals that cannonballed out of the sky and spread their sickly flames through the fields. She slew a score of eredar sorcerors, each more powerful than the last, until finally she pulled her great sword from the belly of a rotted brute, dripping steaming black ichor, and stumbled. Her armor was dented, broken. Her left pauldron was missing, the steel on that side of her body warped by demon blood. She breathed heavily, covered in blood and grime and sweat.

 _You cannot win!_ she screamed, her voice hoarse. She stood unsteadily, favoring one foot. A deep, chilling laugh answered her.

 _My dear girl_ , said Kael’thas, his skin a taunt, dusky grey, his eyes alight with green felfire, _I cannot lose._

Auriel grimaced, her body engulfed in fury and Light, and with a righteous battle cry, charged with sword raised into emerald flames, her hair catching, the blaze piercing her priestly shield and licking at her skin as the edge of her blade connected with－

Rommath woke with a start. He could still see the cold fury in his sister’s eyes, the greed in Kael’s behind his own lids as he sat up in bed, breathing hard. He’d broken out in a cold sweat and he shivered. He shook his head desperately to clear it. He didn’t need to see Kael’s beheading and his sister’s death, even in his dreams.

Shuddering, he peeled off his damp sleep clothes and conjured himself something dry and warm. He clutched the collar of his dressing gown tightly. Breathed in through his nose, and out through his mouth. 

He needed air.

His legs were wooden as he stumbled through the Warden’s home. He felt as though he must be making ample amounts of noise, too much noise not to disturb anyone, but no one appeared, and somehow he made it downstairs, his sweaty hands grasping the smooth handle of the balcony door and letting in the chill of the night air. 

He wasn’t alone.

The Lady Neeluu whirled, startled. Her eyes were wide and watery in the moonlight, her lips forming a tiny ‘o’ of surprise. She said nothing, too shocked to speak at finding her space suddenly invaded, and it was then that Rommath saw that she’d been crying, that she _was_ crying.

It was automatic. She shook her head, pushed away. But her mouth contorted around her protests and she pressed both hands to her face, not wanting him to see, and she let him collect her in his arms. Rommath was stunned. He had never, in the lifetime they had known each other, seen the Lady Neeluu cry and here she was, shoulders shaking, hot and silent tears running down her cheeks. 

And he understood then. Here in the cover of night, away from her responsibilities and guard and people, she was free to break. She’d been stronger than him, surely － he doubted she poured liquor in her coffee or threw things in rage － but everyone broke. _Everyone_ . Hadn’t his apprentice said that? He should feel horrified, he thought dimly, as he felt his own eyes burn, standing there clutching her, but it felt… _good_. He had not touched anyone in so long, had not even held Astalor as they’d cried over his sister, and as he huffed the floral notes of her hair, he let go of the very last shreds of animosity he’d held and hidden all these years. 

Anasterian had asked him his honest opinion, and Rommath had given it. It hadn’t been the Lady Neeluu’s fault, none of it. Childhood friends, she and Kael, and the match would have been a political blessing. The Crown Prince of Silvermoon and the Light of Dawn. And Rommath had begrudged her for her father’s talks with the king, the Warden’s ambitions to see his daughter marry well to a good and loving man. That was not her fault. Neeluu had never been less than a good and loving friend to him, to all of them, and he always had kept her at a distance. He had forgotten until now, that she was only an elf, that she too had been a victim of circumstance just as much as he.

(He really was an asshole, he thought. His sister used to say so often, and he’d denied it, but... )

The ocean blew a cold wild against the manor, the babble of stray murlocs protesting against the waves. Neeluu sobbed softly in his arms, her fingers clenching at his dressing gown, and he stroked her hair, an intimate touch, and when he closed his eyes, the images of Kael and his felfire eyes and Auriel engulfed in flame slowly melted away.

* * *

The morning breeze felt cool and the sun warm and Rommath felt stiff in his bones like a frost spell gone wrong. Birds called overhead and murlocs screamed at them and despite the crick in his neck, Rommath felt almost at peace.

The blanket shifted, bringing with it a note of florals, and Rommath inhaled deeply. It smelled nice and he was cozy and warm and as he stretched, feeling a comfortable weight against him, he cracked an eye open lazily, only for both to fly open and his heart to race.

Light and Sunwell and Silvermoon herself, what on Azeroth had he done?

Growing up as he had, the son of a minor lord, raised in luxury in the Sunspire as the beloved companion of the prince, Rommath was intimately familiar with the rules of decorum and propriety. He knew when it was polite to presume familiarity and when to take offense, and he was often aware that he took offense too easily and often at things that may not be construed as offensive at all. It was with this in mind, then, that Rommath found himself on the Warden’s veranda, laid out on a divan, with the Lady Neeluu nearly on top of him. 

(Oh, he had never wanted the ground to open and swallow him more than he did in this moment.)

This was so inappropriate. His face _flamed_ at how it must look. At least they were _clothed_. 

He remembered gently leading them to the divan and Neeluu clinging to him as though the world might end. She had stopped crying after a long while, and they had sat and watched the ocean with wet faces until the wind and waves had lulled them to sleep. Where had the blanket－

He froze. _Halduron._

(Rommath could only imagine what Halduron Brightwing had thought, stepping onto the veranda with his Lightdamned bloodthistle at the crack of dawn to find the Warden and the Grand Magister curled together on the divan, lewd in their dressing gowns and their hair loose. He had probably cackled to himself as he’d covered them with this blanket. By the _Sunwell_ , what if he _said something?_ Rommath wanted to die.)

“I used to wake up early,” came Neeluu’s voice, sleepy and somewhere under his chin, “with my parents and my brother, to await the dawn. After my mother died, my father stopped, but Thalorien… Thalorien and I never missed a single sunrise.”

She propped herself up, her hair mussed. A smile tugged the corners of her mouth. “My apologies,” she murmured hesitantly, tugging the neckline of her dressing gown somewhere closer to appropriate. 

Rommath shook his head. “No, no.” He was _highly_ aware in that moment of his appearance, the runic tattoos on his chest peeking out from under the fabric of his clothes and his hair loose and flowing like a commoner (or a debauched whore, he thought frantically). It bordered on obscene. “It was my fault. I ought to have…” (Ought to have what? Left her? Ushered her _inside?_ ) “...conducted myself better.”

Neeluu laughed, a merry sound and welcome change from the sobs of the night before. “Don’t be silly, Rommath.” She sat up, and she left him the blanket. “You behaved admirably,” she assured him. “I think we both could name one or two elves who would not have done the same.” 

He watched her touch the pendant at her throat, the sun and sword of House Dawnseeker. “Yes… Yes, we could.”

The wind ruffled her hair, carrying with it the sounds of the isle stirring, Dawnblades shouting orders, and the soft crashing of waves. Farther off, Rommath heard the clanging of metal on metal, the groaning of overloaded wagons, as carts came down from the harbor with supplies and sent back laden with goods and fresh hands. 

“I believe we have peaches,” Neeluu told him somewhat abruptly, “for breakfast. From the South Seas. Have you ever had a peach?” When he shook his head, she beamed and said, “They’re delicious. Let us dress and I’ll introduce you to peaches, hmm?”

“Alright.” Rommath looked away as she stood, his face coloring, and thought privately that she seemed as anxious as he. (Which, he supposed, she was only right to be.)

* * *

“Ah, Grand Magister! You’re awake!”

Rommath could _hear_ the smirk. He scowled.

“What do you want, Halduron?”

Halduron boasted a grin from ear to pointed ear as he tossed an armful of broken branches into the refuse pile and sauntered over. “How’d you sleep?” he asked jovially.

Rommath’s frown deepened. “Do you have anything of note to say or must I stand here and endure your wisecracking for the time it takes to procure a dragonhawk?”

Halduron snorted. “And here I thought the stick would’ve been _removed_ from your ass this morning.” He grinned.

Rommath was getting a migraine.

“Whatever you're thinking happened _did not_ ,” he hissed. 

“Of course,” the ranger said lightly. He threw Rommath a wink. “Nothing happened at all. And then I kindly gave you a blanket － you’re welcome, by the way － and nothing continued to happen.” 

Rommath was getting a very strong migraine.

“I must say,” Halduron continued, “I didn’t peg you for a man to ‘reach above his station.’ Isn’t that something you’re always on about? Decor or something?”

“ _Decorum_ ,” Rommath growled. (He wondered vaguely if Theron would still trust him if he murdered Halduron on the spot.)

“That.” Halduron laughed. “I nearly shat myself this morning. Thank the Sunwell I needed a bit of thistle or I’d have never even seen you.”

(So crass.)

“There was nothing to see,” Rommath said through clenched teeth. 

“Mmhmm. I didn’t get where I am by _seeing_ , Grand Magister.” The Ranger General winked at him again. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“No, you got where you are by fucking half of Silvermoon,” Rommath muttered. 

Halduron shrugged. “It sure didn’t hurt.”

“You are disgusting.”

Halduron grinned. “And now you’re disgusting with me.”

Rommath made a face. He would _not_ be categorized with Halduron Brightwing. The brothels of Silvermoon would _never_ know him as they did Halduron.

“I am returning to Silvermoon,” he said, in a tone that brokered no argument.

(Halduron had never seemed to understand when to keep silent.) 

“Should I expect you at dinner? Should I even come to dinner?” His hand flew to his face and his eyes grew wide in an expression of girlish shock. “Will you want the house to yourselves?”

(There were fewer things in his life that Rommath was proud of than the fact that he did not, in fact, set Halduron Brightwing aflame that day. He really, really was sorely tempted to.)

"Be sure you're _on time_ for the meeting with Lady Sylvanas," he snarled. "I will pull you from your bed by your ankles if I must."

"I don't think it'll be me that'll need to be pulled from bed," Halduron teased. 

(He managed to dodge the fireball Rommath sent his way, but Rommath didn't set him on fire, and that was still a win.)

* * *

Erindae Firestriker thought herself excellent at her job. It didn’t need saying so, and the Grand Magister wasn’t one for praise, all things considered. But she knew, when he’d given her students of her own, that he thought her abilities satisfactory, and she relished the chance to prove herself at molding these two boys in her image for the good of Silvermoon.

But by the Sunwell, the younger generation could drive a woman to drink and drink in excess.

Peoreth Il’danube and Maltrake were two stunningly gifted magi, and together their minds were incredible. They had submitted for review to the Grand Magister a research abstract for a teleportation device like no other － able to move a single person hundreds of miles, even one with little magic of their own, and the Regent Lord had been most interested. From what Erindae had been able to gather, he was in talks with the Banshee Queen of the new Undercity of an alliance, and the Grand Magister agreed in the usefulness of such a device for two such magically uninclined elves. He had put Erindae in charge of overseeing the research, and Erindae…

Perhaps it was best to say that most days, Erindae fantasized about smacking the magi with the flat of her hand, and then backhanding them with that same hand covered in ice. Sometimes she wondered if she’d angered the Grand Magister, for him to have cursed her so.

“How is the teleportation orb coming along?” Rommath asked. He seemed in an odd mood to Erindae, the sort of mood for which the only answer was the last of the southern coffee (an ounce of the good stuff from Capital City was all that was left; she’d been sure to hide it away carefully once she’d caught him poking around) and those horrid pastries made of thistle flour, but he’d been like that for days and she couldn’t work miracles, thank you.

(The pastries were made not from bloodthistle, but from roots of a prickly sort of thistle that now only grew in the untainted Amani Mountains of the Ghostlands. Erindae had to pay a pretty pouch of gold to the Farstriders for the thistles and a baker from the south for the pastries but it was worth it to see the look on the Grand Magister’s face. She didn’t understand the fuss, herself, for she thought the pastries were crumbly and bitter, but the southern baker had told her that all her southern clients swore they tasted of home.)

“As well as can be expected,” she said honestly. Rommath raised an eyebrow at her.

“Sylvanas is to be here _today_.” 

Erindae schooled her face into the same mask the Grand Magister wore every day. “I believe the problem to lie with the magi, Grand Magister, not with the magic.”

“And what does that mean?”

Erindae sighed. She wondered vaguely if he would approve her use of brute force on the two idiots. (Probably, she reasoned.)

“Grand Magister,” she said hesitantly. “Have you met Maltrake and Peoreth?”

It wasn’t an unreasonable question, altogether. The Magisters’ Sanctum had hundreds of magi, coming and going and working, some who taught at the Magisterium and some who worked for the Spire, some who devoted themselves wholly to research and some who rarely saw the light of day. For any one person to know them all would be madness. Even Erindae, privy to all that she was, could not name every magister in the Sanctum.

Rommath narrowed his eyes. “What have they done now?”

* * *

They heard the boys long before they saw them. Magic such as theirs, secretive and of the utmost importance, was worked upon far away from prying eyes.

“Begone, peon! I, Peoreth Il’danube, greatest mage within earshot, shall teleport you, mere feline, to the Undercity!”

(Erindae pinched at the bridge of her nose and exhaled slowly through it.)

“It shall be noted that my greatness shall be felt during this period of reformation, as I, the last of House Il’danube, prepare a teleportation device the likes of which have never been seen, heard of, or felt!”

“Mrow?”

Rommath threw open the heavy door to the lab. Amid a cacophony of arcane equipment stood a large orb on a golden pedestal, two magisters, and a familiar grey cat.

“Oh yes, it will be grand!” Maltrake, the younger of the two, placed the cat beside the orb. His colleague watched with barely contained glee as the cat moved to sniff it.

“So grand, in fact, that the fabric of time and space itself will shift, propelling the denizens of this world into a new age of prosperity!” Peoreth watched anxiously as the cat touched her nose to the orb－

And disappeared.

“Success, my friend!” Maltrake shouted. “Yet another feline underling successfully deployed!”

“ _Ahem_.”

Both men whirled, grins never wavering as they took in their superiors. Erindae made an exasperated sound. Rommath’s nostrils flared.

“Ah, Grand Magister! You’re just in time to witness the future of the sin－”

“Where have you sent that cat?” Rommath hissed.

“The Undercity!” Maltrake boasted. “Dreadful, horrible place!”

“All in preparation!” Peoreth nodded. “We’ve sent forty-three of the beasts this week to be sure of the delicate balance of time and space itself!”

“Have they come back?” 

“We were never told to bring them back!” Peoreth said cheerfully. 

(Erindae could have smacked him.)

“S-so… You’re just... “ Rommath struggled to find words. “Teleporting cats…”

“Seeing them off on a vast adventure into the unknowns of Lordaeron, Grand Magister!”

(Why did it have to be _these two_ who’d come up with the teleportation device? Why?)

“Get. Them. Back,” Rommath snarled. “You will bring Lady Sylvanas here to speak with the Regent Lord and you _will not return_ _until every cat has been accounted for_.”

“As you wish, Grand Magister!” Maltrake put on what Erindae thought he meant as a serious face. “The Forsaken shall bask in the opulence of our people! Let them taste the fineries of living, if only this one time! Perhaps then they may die with finality, knowing that they have been touched by the hands of a god!”

“ _Just shut up and go!_ ”

(After the Grand Magister had left and Maltrake had teleported, Erindae really did backhand Peoreth. “How could you use the Grand Magister’s _own cat_ in your stupid experiment?! Were you even planning on bringing them back?!”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maltrake and Peoreth are from beta BC and I love them. Their dialogue here is nearly word for word their dialogue in the beta. They existed until the teleportation orbs went up between Silvermoon and Undercity. I have been waiting for the moment I could fit them in.
> 
> Halduron Brightwing is a little shit. This has been a PSA.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kael learns something upsetting and turns to Rommath for comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please proceed with the knowledge that I believe, and this have written this story as such, that hair touching is a deeply intimate thing. Especially with the intricacy of some of the blood elf hairstyles. Elves are prim and proper; their hair being anything short of perfect (like the natural way it looks when they're sleeping), and allowing someone to see it that way, is very intimate. 
> 
> *************************

Prince Arthas Menethil was tall, blonde, and － according to some － very handsome. Dalaran had gotten itself in a right tizzy over his visit, to the point where classes had been canceled and the Council of Six had announced a banquet in his honor.

“What about the archmages?” Capernian hissed. The announcing of exam results had been postponed in light of Arthas’s visit.

“No one threw a banquet when Kael’thas came to the city,” Telonicus muttered, tinkering away with some toy or another. He was a friend of Capernian’s, though taught by another archmage.

“I should think this a special occasion,” Astalor said diplomatically. “Perhaps because Prince Arthas does not live here? I don’t believe he’s magically inclined.”

“Call it what you like,” Capernian groused. “But the fact remains that when the quel’dorei prince came to Dalaran, no one batted an eye, and when the human prince did the same, he was thrown a party.”

“Dear Lady Proudmoore is there too,” Telonicus added. “Practically a princess herself.”

“ _ And _ the Light of Dawn,” Astalor said quickly. 

“Our exam results!” Capernian moaned. “I  _ need _ to know if I did better than Lord Sour Face here.” She winked cheekily at Rommath but he was not paying attention.

It  _ bothered _ him, this banquet. Not only that their exam results were pushed off. He had not worked day and night for five hundred years to be cast aside for some human princeling. No. It  _ angered _ him that  _ Kael _ had worked hard for five hundred years and been cast aside for some princeling. Who was this Arthas Menethil, to think himself more important than Kael’thas Sunstrider? Nineteen and all of three hairs on his chin and the city acted as though he were the second coming of Dath’Remar, but Kael they’d treated the same as any gnome on the street! Kael who was older and wiser and more talented than any who’d ever set foot in this magic city, who could summon an armory of arcane weaponry that put Arthas Menethil’s broadsword to shame. Rommath’s blood boiled.

Capernian slammed back her drink and signaled the waitress for another. “It’s hawkstrider shit,” she muttered. “I’m a  _ Lady _ and I was told my status doesn’t matter. But Jaina was invited to this banquet and  _ she’s _ just a Lady too.”

“You’re going to get us thrown out,” Astalor whispered.

“No one here understands Thalassian,” Rommath said distractedly. “You know that.” 

(Astalor swore they had all drunk too much and that’s why they were speaking this way. Capernian had jabbed a perfectly manicured nail at his chest and snarled he hadn’t drunk enough.)

Arthas was  _ alright, _ he supposed. If one liked gold hair and round ears and humans. And an insufferable attitude. Personally, the whole three times he had met the man, he had wanted to set him aflame, even before this nonsense business about the banquet.

(Perhaps he wasn’t getting enough sleep. He tended to want to ignite things when he was overtired.)

“Well,” Rommath said loudly. Mostly to be heard over the argument between Capernian and Telonicus. “I am calling it a night.”

“I think I shall second that idea,” Astalor agreed hastily.

He bid Astalor goodnight at the second floor of the Enclave and let himself into his darkened apartment. It was a chill night, not so terrible as to have him shaking but he lit a fire in the hearth nonetheless and poured himself a single glass of good Dalaran cider. (That bothered him too, what the Dalaranians called “cider.” In Quel’Thalas, cider was made from apples and was little more than juice; but Dalaran, as in all things, had made things silly and complicated. Cider came in two varieties, and  _ sparkling _ meant the juice to which he was accustomed, while  _ straight _ was a deeply alcoholic concoction whose bubbles shot up the nose when drunk too fast.) A single glass only, to put him to sleep, or else he would lie awake all night glaring at his ceiling. He did not often indulge around Kael (that would be foolish), but alone, in his apartment, he was safe to partake until he felt pleasantly warm and dizzy, and when he did, he stumbled to bed. The anger still simmered under his skin, but the buzz of the alcohol dimmed it enough so that thoughts of outrage at the insult at Kael because simply thoughts of Kael, Kael,  _ Kael… _

* * *

Someone was in his apartment.

Rommath was torn from an entirely too pleasant dream, finding himself entangled not in Kael’s arms but in his own sheets, blinking blearily in the dark. He felt sluggish and slow, as he always did when he drank, and for a moment he closed his eyes once more and tried to return to his dream, back to Kael’s arms and Kael’s lips－

_ Thud. _

“Fuck!”

Rommath’s eyes flew open. He had definitely not dreamt that. Someone was really in his apartment.

He didn’t leap out of bed so much as fall out, his feet catching on the hems of his pants. He was wide awake now, head throbbing where he’d hit it. He drew fire to his fingertips; he’d never had a break-in before, had little of worth, but he  _ was _ the closest companion to the prince of Quel’Thalas, and magic was a dangerous game of politics. 

(A sick sort of thrill ran through him at that thought.)

Whoever it was had broken something; Rommath saw the outline of shatter on the carpet. The fire had burned low, not giving off enough light for him to see. A dark figure sat curled up on the floor of his sitting room, hair silver in the feeble moonlight trickling in from the window. They were shaking, and every so often lifted a bottle and drank from it.

His cider!

“ _ Kael? _ ”

The figure whirled, nearly losing his balance, and by the fire in his hand Rommath saw it _was_ Kael, huddled in his fine cloak and looking very small. He held the cider by its neck, and when he spoke, his voice wobbled horribly.

“I didn’t th-think you were h-here.” 

The tension bled from him at finding not a stranger nor an assassin but simply his prince, and Rommath directed his fire once more at the hearth. “What are you doing here, Kael?” he asked tiredly. This was not the first time Kael had broken into his apartment but － as with Rommath breaking into Kael’s － if Rommath really wanted to keep him out, he would have done long ago.

Kael hiccuped, and with the fire built back up, Rommath saw that his friend looked awful. His face was red and streaky, and great fat tears leaked from his eyes. Rommath shook his head, unsure if he was truly awake. He had never seen his prince in such a state before.

“Kael?” he ventured hesitantly. He took two steps forward, suddenly unsure if this even  _ was _ Kael. Perhaps this was all a very elaborate dream.

Kael sniffled, his voice shaking as badly as he was. “I-it’s just… it’s n-not…” He broke off into a sob, and the sight of him stirred a deep longing in Rommath.

“Use your words, Kael,” he said gently. Carefully, he snuck a step closer, dropping warily to one knee. Kael was clearly drunk, and he yielded the bottle of cider without a fight.

“ _ Jaina, _ ” he gasped, and Rommath frowned. 

“Jaina?”

Kael nodded miserably. Strands of hair stuck to his wet cheeks and his eyes were glassy as they overfilled with tears he didn’t bother to conceal. “She… I s-saw her…” Suddenly he screwed his face up and a great sob overtook him. Without warning he flung himself at Rommath and it was only with great difficulty that they both did not end up in a pile on the floor.

(This has to be some sort of bizarre dream. What on earth about Jaina Proudmoore would have  _ Kael _ in tears on his sitting room floor?)

Bewildered, Rommath’s arms nonetheless went around his prince. It was automatically, built in from long ago, soothing his sister and brothers from their childhood nightmares and injuries. Shakily, he drew what he hoped to be a soothing hand down Kael's back as Kael breathed harshly somewhere near his ear. It wasn’t like his prince lose it like this. 

“Did something happen at that banquet?” he asked. 

Kael hugged him tight. “D-don’t,” he hiccuped. “Don’t speak of th-that.”

Rommath tried to sit back, to look at his friend in the eyes, but Kael clung to him desperately. “What happened?” But his every attempt to prise the truth of the matter drew the most heart wrenching sobs and Rommath’s own heart could not bear it. He quieted, and his bare shoulder soon grew hot and wet with tears, and they sat like that for so long it seemed Kael would never stop.

“R-rommath.” Kael’s voice was hoarse. He trembled in Rommath’s arms, no longer wailing brokenly but still a tired, broken thing, and the soft, sad way in which he said Rommath’s name made Rommath’s arms tighten around him. “I should h-have listened t-to you… Y-you’re the only… the only one…” He sucked in a desperate breath. “The only one wh-who’s alw-ways been there… The only one who g-gives a  _ shit _ ab-bout m-me…”

Rommath froze. “Wh-what?” He had no idea what was going on, if he was dreaming or truly awake, but in no world had he ever imagined Kael would say something like  _ this. _

“Sh-she doesn’t w-want me,” Kael mumbled into his hair. Fresh tears sprang to his eyes. “I thought… So s-stupid… Maybe she’d w-want me f-for  _ m-me _ …”

(This was not where Rommath thought this was going.)

“Jaina?”

Mutely, Kael nodded into Rommath’s shoulder. 

Rommath ached for him. He truly, honestly did. Inside, he seethed. He seethed that this stupid human woman would spurn the best man in Dalaran, in the Eastern Kingdoms (if indeed that’s what had happened). He held his closest friend tightly, wishing he had something,  _ anything _ , to tell him to help him feel better. 

(He doubted insulting Jaina would work. He especially doubted confessing  － even if he were brave enough － his own love for Kael would have any sort of storybook ending. It would be cruel, and Rommath told the small voice in his head urging him on to shut up.)

Shamefully, selfishly, he allowed himself a moment of weakness, just one, and ran his fingers through Kael’s hair. He told himself he was comforting and that was all, that it was not a  _ lewd _ intimate touch but soothing. He had never touched Kael’s hair before. He had never touched anyone’s hair before.

“It’s okay,” he murmured.

“It’s not,” Kael moaned.

“It’s alright.” Unfastening the heavy brocade cloak and epaulettes, Rommath carefully let them fall to the floor. 

“What will I d-do?” Kael hiccuped.

“Go to bed, for starters,” Rommath said gently. “You can stay here. I won’t make you go home.” 

“I don’t w-want to go home,” Kael sniffled. He made no move to get up.

“Don’t make me drag you,” Rommath teased. Kael was mostly dead weight, but leaning heavily on Rommath as he was, they managed to struggle to a standing position, and he was good about moving his feet. There was no question about where he would sleep. Rommath would make him comfortable in his own bed, and then he would take the couch. As upset as he was, Rommath thought it only fair Kael have the bed.

“There you go.” Kael had not removed his shoes when he’d come in, and Rommath did that for him. Kael watched him with glassy eyes. He wasn’t sure if his friend was really seeing him at all, and he wasn’t sure that was because he was that upset or that drunk. 

“Sleep it off, Kael,” Rommath said quietly. He gently covered his prince, even tucking him in like he used to with his brothers, and as he turned to leave, Kael’s hand shot out, like iron around his wrist.

“D-don’t leave. You n-never leave. Don’t leave me.” 

Rommath’s cheeks colored. Kael’s eyes were watery again and open wide. Kael was laying in his bed. Kael was asking him to  _ stay. _ And though the request was innocent, a friend asking another to sit with him in his time of need, a voice in the back of his head screamed that Rommath was bare-chested and loose-haired and the object of all his fantasies was in his bed and  _ asking for him. _

(He told the voice to shut up shut up shut  **up.** )

He let Kael pull him in. He let Kael fold him against his chest, face buried against Rommath’s back and in Rommath’s hair. He would always give in to Kael. 

As Kael’s frantic breathing evened into the slow, deep breaths of sleep, he could have left. He could have gotten up and quietly padded out to his couch and gone back to sleep. But that would be dishonest. What if Kael woke during the night? What if Rommath’s sudden absence convinced him that Rommath had left him too? 

His heart hammered. Kael curled around him, and his arms were warm and strong. Under the liquor, under the arcane, Rommath breathed the illicit scents of ink and soap and  _ Kael. _ How often had he dreamt of this? How often had he wanted this, thought of doing exactly this as he glared down at Kael’s prone form, torn between rousing him and crawling between the sheets with him? He struggled to keep his mind carefully blank.

Kael’s breath blew somewhere by his ear. It  _ did _ things to him. He let out a small whine in his sleep, and one hand found Rommath’s. Rommath’s heart was in his throat. He had to be dreaming. 

* * *

He’d been dreaming, he thought. And  _ oh _ , what a beautiful dream it had been. 

Rommath snuggled deeper into his covers, into the warmth there, teetering on the very edge of consciousness. In his dream, it had been he who Kael had sought in his most desperate moments, upset and shaking, he who Kael had clung to like a drowning man in a storm. He had held his prince close, Kael’s heart pounding under his hands, murmuring soothing words in his ear and pressing chaste, comforting kisses to his hair; and Kael’s long, slender fingers had pressed upon the bare skin of his back, had tangled in his loose hair, and in Rommath’s arms the man had quieted, whatever having upset him in the first place forgotten, breathing softly in his ear,  _ Dalah’arifal… you’re the only one who has ever understood me…  _

The word brought shivers down his spine then, and again now, in the haze between sleep and wakefulness. It was an old word, an intimate word. In the sonnets and the classics, it was the pet name of timeless lovers, of true companions. Of soulmates. Kael had called him  _ dalah’arifal, my cherished, _ once before, in another dream… (Even in Rommath’s dreams, the word was too precious to imagine.)

It was warm in his bed, so warm and cozy. His sheets were good quality mageweave, his duvet thick runecloth of a dark purple, and they hugged him close as a person might. There was a sigh that may have been his own, and he thought perhaps, just this once, he would sleep in. (Not that he would sleep for long. Kael would surely barge his way in at any time － if he were not too hungover － to recount with glee the banquet from the night before, how he had bested Arthas Menethil at this or that, the decadence of the foods, and the beauty of the various ladies in attendance. No doubt also the beauty of whom he had bedded, but Rommath would not think of that right now.)

He felt warm, and strained, and with a pressing  _ need _ between his legs. He’d often considered himself above such baser desires (how could he justify touching himself when there was so very much  _ magic _ to be done or Kael to subdue?), but now, in his morning lethargy, the dream of Kael still so close he felt he could reach out and touch it, he gave in to those baser desires he’d often scorned. He gave in, and slid one heavy, lazy hand down himself, down his bare chest, sighing quietly at his own touch. He caught his skin lightly with the edge of his nails, biting his lip, hissing around it. He hand traveled lower, over the slender hand splayed over his stomach, to dip past his－

_ That was not **his** hand. _

The long, graceful fingers. The neatly manicured nails. The scar between thumb and index where he’d cut himself, the first time he’d learned to summon an arcane weapon. The blade had been so sharp…

It had not been a dream. 

It had not been a dream it had not been a dream it had  _ not been a dream it had not been a dream it had  _ **_not been a dream._ **

Rommath fought against the waves of sleep threatening to keep him under. He felt his eyelids straining to open. As he rose towards true consciousness, he became aware of himself, his surroundings. There was a heat pressed to his back, and an arm draped over his side. He recognized the sound of someone breathing, someone who was not him. 

When he finally managed to open his eyes, and chance a desperate peek over his shoulder, he found Kael as he had found him so many mornings before: His white gold hair splayed on the pillow, snoring gently. Rommath’s heart leapt into his throat.

_ It had not been a dream. _

His bare chest peeked out from his unbuttoned dress shirt, and one leg wound loosely around Rommath’s own. Kael’s face was partially obscured by Rommath’s long black hair, which fluttered with his every breath. The hand across Rommath’s stomach had birthed a score of butterflies at its core and he wasn’t sure if he was going to be sick or if he was going to die right there. 

(Of embarrassment or pleasure or some humiliating combination of both he wasn’t sure and could figure out in the afterlife.)

Kael’s eyes were puffy and red, his skin pale. But he looked… peaceful. More peaceful than he’d been last night. ( _ It hadn’t been a dream!) _ Everything in him screamed not to, and yet Rommath found himself, very carefully, brushing away the hair that covered Kael’s face. (What if he woke? What would he say? What would  _ Rommath _ say to  _ him?) _

Kael slept on, oblivious to Rommath’s touch. They had never been so close, their faces mere inches apart. Even in boyhood, staying awake and whispering secrets late into the night, Rommath had kept his distance. Could not let himself so near his prince, did not trust  _ anyone _ so near to himself. And yet…

This close, he could see every line on Kael’s face. When had these lines appeared? Were they from worry or joy? He saw the tear tracks from the night before, the fluid dried and leaving only salt behind. This close, Kael’s hair was not merely gold or white but dozens of shades in between, shades for which Rommath had no name but which existed here, in this space created mere inches between them. He wondered if his eyes were the same, not just sky blue but all the colors of the sky, and he almost －  _ almost _ － found himself wishing his prince would wake and prove his theory true.

Up close, Rommath forgot to breathe, because Kael was the most beautiful man alive.

He stirred, and watching him wake － naturally, not by Rommath’s hand － was as beautiful as watching him sleep. He scrunched his nose. All his muscles tensed and released, one by one. The hand on Rommath’s stomach flexed and was withdrawn, and Rommath felt the cold intimately where it had been as Kael drew it to his own chest. His prince made a small noise, as though protesting the intrusion of consciousness (what sorts of dreams might he have been having?); and as though in slow motion, blue began to peek from under his lashes. 

(And they weren’t just  _ blue, _ they were the color of the summer sky at high noon and the translucent pale of melting ice; the color of cornflowers and bluebells, and around the pupils, the deep, dark of the sea surrounding Quel’Danas. How had Rommath ever thought they were simply  _ blue _ when they held so much  _ color? _ ) 

He woke quietly, when he wasn’t being forced from slumber by an indignant Rommath, squinting in the light in the room. He yawned, graceless and inelegant (and, dare Rommath say, somewhat  _ cutely) _ , his eyes half-lidded and sleepy, and when he stretched, long and lithe like a cat, he made a rumble in the back of his throat that went right to Rommath’s ever persistent erection. 

(He was decidedly  _ not _ thinking about that. He had been watching Kael sleep and then watching Kael wake and had forgotten all about it, and now that he’d been reminded, he was going to continue  _ not thinking about it.) _

“‘M sorry,” Kael mumbled, “I didn’t mean to sleep in your bed.” 

“It’s alright.” The words were automatic, and genuine. For Kael, he would do anything. Give anything.  _ Be _ anything. As long as it made him happy. “Are you… feeling better?”

(He wasn’t entirely sure what Kael had been on about last night, or what he’d claimed to have seen, but he didn’t think his friend would want to discuss it.)

“Mm.” Kael rested his head in the crook of his arm, his eyes cloudy. “I do. Thank you.”

(He wasn’t sure if he was being thanked for asking or thanked for his presence and he didn’t think it wise to ask. Should he say  _ you’re welcome _ ?)

A sigh. “My head has seen better days, regrettably,” Kael went on. He prodded between his own eyes with one delicate finger. “It feels as though you’ve taken a knife to me, just right here.”

Rommath swallowed. His face felt hot. While Kael had detached from him completely, they had still slept in the same bed. Rommath looked… Well. (He didn’t really want to think about how he looked at the moment. It probably wasn’t good.) And Kael had called him… 

He blushed. 

“That, ah… that happens,” he stuttered. “When you drink. As much as you did, last night. All my good cider too.”

Kael laughed in a puff of air. “I drank a great deal more than that,” he admitted. He glanced at Rommath and then looked away, sheepishly. “I don’t, ah, quite remember how I got here.”

“It’s lucky you came here then and not somewhere else.” It was easy, this banter. It was easy to fall back into this push and pull rhythm. Rommath felt his body start to relax, and gave thanks to whichever power looking out for him － the Light, the Sunwell － for that.

There was a soft chuckle from Kael’s direction. “Don’t be daft,” he murmured. “I could find your apartment with my eyes closed.” He reached over. Wrapped a lock of Rommath’s long hair around one longer finger. Just looked at it; the contrast of dark hair on his golden skin. “I could never confuse you with anyone else.”

He couldn’t breathe again.

( _ This _ had to be the dream.)

After a long moment (a very long moment － entire universes came into being and flickered out of existence as he and Kael laid there, mere inches apart), Kael rolled over onto his back. He let the lock of black hair fall through his fingers and squeezed his eyes shut. Flung an arm over his face.

“My kingdom for a glass of water,” he muttered. And the moment － whatever the moment had been － was lost, slipping through Rommath’s fingers as the strands of his hair had through Kael’s. His prince looked vulnerable, laying there with his still blotchy face, his shirt half undone, and Rommath… While he didn’t feel  _ need _ , not of that sort, he did feel he ought to… 

“My  _ kingdom _ . _ ”  _ Kael was looking at him now, one eye cracked and peeking from under his arm. “For  _ water. _ ” A hint of a smile tugged at the very corner of his mouth.

(How Rommath wanted to kiss that smile into being.)

He laughed, a small, halting thing. “You can get your own water.” Rommath reached over and shoved him, Kael’s skin fire against his bare hand. A shiver ran down his spine.

The smile grew wider. “You would refuse your prince?”

_ I would refuse you nothing. _

“I would refuse to inconvenience myself for your lack of foresight.” He felt he would burst into flame when Kael pushed back, the hand on his naked chest raining sparks over his skin.

His prince grinned, a true smile with his brilliant white teeth, and let out a soft chuckle. “Truly mine own devoted  _ alore. _ ”

_ Alore. _ Another old word with weight. To think Kael  thought of him as such made him swell with pride. But to hear him say it aloud…

(The word  _ alore _ had fallen out of use in Thalassian, relegated to epic poetry and the classics. It was a strong word, and to say it meant  _ friend _ meant doing it a terrible disservice. No,  _ alore _ meant so, so much more.  _ Alore _ described the unbreakable bond between two true companions, two beings whose heart and souls were one. It was a tricky word to translate, and Common often substituted the word  _ soulmate _ , but  _ alore _ rarely, if ever, invoked the sort of romance that the Common word did. Even in Darnassian, from which Thalassian was descended, the meaning was lost, for in Darnassian,  _ alore _ meant  _ love.) _

“Get out of my bed.”

Kael laughed. “It isn’t good manners to kick out your bedfellows, dalah’alore.”

Rommath pushed him until he went over the edge, landing in a heap on the floor and taking with him most of the sheets, and Kael, not to be deterred, seized Rommath’s arm and pulled him off balance until he fell head first, tumbling gracelessly onto the carpet, his hair in his face.

_ For you, I would do anything.  _

* * *

It did not take long to learn what had upset Kael so badly. Though Rommath was not one for gossip, the rumors flew. (How could they not? The human prince of Lordaeron slept as guest of honor in the Violet Citadel.) And though Kael tried very hard to seem unbothered, as someone who had been at his side for five hundred years, Rommath knew intimately the pain on his face whenever he caught sight of the Lady Jaina. He caught the minute stiffening of his spine when Jaina joined them at their table, the tenseness of his voice when they spoke. And, on his last day in Dalaran, when Arthas Menethil personally came to fetch Jaina for a long lunch before his departure, Rommath did not miss the hard look in his eyes, the fire that burned there. 

(As a guest of the banquet, Neeluu undoubtedly knew what had transpired between the three of them. But Rommath would not stoop so low as to ask her and knew she would not tell him if he did. Women valued their friendships, he knew.)

“I worry for him,” he confided to Astalor. Precious Astalor, who held no judgement, who held his tongue. “He has not been himself.” Astalor would never tease him as Capernian would for his fears, never look strangely at him and  _ question _ as Telonicus may. Astalor would listen. 

His friend nodded. “I have seen that for myself,” he agreed. “I may have asked Aethas. He was invited to the banquet, you know,” he added quickly. (Ever since their argument, Astalor had tried his best not to mention the other man. “I’m not having another argument,” he would say, non confrontational.) 

“Did he know anything?” Rommath hated how eager he seemed. As angry as he was at the other elf, Aethas was  _ reliable, _ certainly moreso than any of the rumormongers flitting around. 

Astalor paused. He slowly stirred a spoonful of sugar into his coffee, once, twice, thrice around the cup, before adding cream. Rommath resisted the urge to snap at him to hurry; he had to retain  _ some _ pride.

“He had seen some things,” Astalor admitted finally. 

“Such as?”

Astalor carefully placed his spoon on his saucer and picked up his cup. Rommath’s own coffee － black － sat untouched, steaming gently. “The banquet was held in the Citadel, as you know,” he began. “Prince Arthas was given rooms there until he left yesterday evening.”

Rommath tried to be patient. Sometimes, when speaking to Astalor, it took time to receive the answer to the question. Astalor liked to mull over his words before he spoke, a trait Rommath had been told he would benefit from having.

His friend took a sip of his coffee. “According to Aethas,” he continued, “Jaina was invited to his chambers. Neither of them returned to the banquet.”

Rommath stared. Well. That was. Not exactly what he’d been expecting. Jaina was so…  _ proper. _ Who would have thought she’d fuck a man at a party? 

(Kael was clearly to blame, being the terrible influence he was.)

“I see,” he said slowly. “And Aethas said this?”

“Mm. Aethas wouldn’t lie to me.” 

Well. 

“I find it difficult to believe Kael is this upset over a  _ woman,” _ Rommath scoffed. And yet he had seen it. He had seen Kael crumble, snotty and drunk and broken, at his feet. He had lain in bed with him (the thought still made him blush) as he sobbed. Over a  _ human woman. _

He chewed on the inside of his cheek, tasting blood. (He was  _ not _ jealous, he told himself.)

Astalor shrugged. “He’ll soon find another. He always does.” But he was frowning, clearly concerned as well. 

It wasn’t  _ fair. _ It wasn’t  _ right. _ Rommath had been by Kael’s side for five hundred years, had shared secrets and stories, ridden hawkstriders and swam in the sea… He had supported Kael in everything he had done for  _ five hundred years _ , and it was this stupid human woman he loved, not Rommath. The ache in his heart, the one that had started as a hairline fault the day he met a spoiled prince with white gold hair, exploded, a gaping crater that left him raw and bloody. He felt like weeping. He couldn’t breathe. Why did Kael love her? What could she give him that Rommath couldn’t?

_ Why am I not good enough? _

“Rommath?” Astalor’s worry was directed at him now. “Are you alright?”

Rommath took a deep breath. Exhaled. 

“Yes,” he lied. “I’m fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **************************
> 
> This chapter gave me difficulty. I'd actually planned it the same time I'd introduced Jaina, and while I'm sure you all know that the past skips around quite a bit more than the present, I couldn't introduce her, have Kael declare his love for him, and then break his heart in one chapter. That's just too much time skip. In addition, I've been struggling with myself with the past week, so instead of being able to bang out a chapter in ten hours like I've been doing, I've been doing at most like an hour or two all week. Sorry for the wait. :(
> 
> If you remember the deliciously spicy dream from a few chapters ago, dream!Kael called Rommath dalah'arifal in it. Drunk and brokenhearted Kael also called Rommath dalah'arifal. Rommath is a little O_O because that's, uh, kinda not something your homie says to you. That's like Durotan going up to Orgrim Doomhammer and calling him "Orgrim, my most beloved, love and light of my life, how you been, dude?" Yet in this same chapter, sober Kael then calls him dalah'alore, which would be Durotan going "Orgrim, my bro, the broest bro to ever bro, how's it hanging?" Rommath is just like "... i think... you told me you loved me and then immediately friendzoned me, but maybe that was a dream, but maybe also you like dick when you're drunk? please? do we need to talk? i am VERY willing to help you figure that out." The inspiration for the two words (dalah'arifal comes from the same fic I believe Rommath's cat comes from) comes from old old classics in Greek and Babylonian, where they DO have words for timeless lovers and true friends (I can't think of such true friends atm but like... I can't think of anything super far back because I suck, but I'm gonna pull from pop culture here and say Sam and Frodo. Sam and Frodo are friends, and they are friends with Pippin and Merry, but Sam and Frodo are much closer, have a better and truer bond, love and sacrifice for one another, than they do with Pippin or Merry. I'm babbling. This is what depression and no sleep does to me.)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rommath and Astalor take matters into their own hands; and exam results are out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk guys, sometimes I write real fast and sometimes I write r e a l s l o w.

It was like old times. As though the past five hundred years had not happened, and they were still boys back in Quel’Thalas. With exams results looming, Kael had boasted of his intentions to spend his free time drunk and whoring (though he had phrased it much more delicately than that), and Rommath was determined to produce on the alcohol front, at least.

He recruited Astalor. Astalor who scorned much of Kael’s current lifestyle (“the king will likely be paying off a score of women to keep their bastard children secret,” he’d once said), who put on his best face and put himself front and center as he never did in the attempt at keeping Kael’s spirits up. Astalor with his weak alcohol tolerance, who Rommath found more than once sick in the washroom and who always shakily brushed off his hands and glasses of water, coughing and sputtering, “He laughed, right? He thought it was funny?” And Rommath, very wobbly himself, would shove the water in Astalor’s hand and assure him that yes, Kael had found it hilarious, was laughing himself silly over this or that that Astalor had said.

It had been harder to convince Kael. Though he put on a happy face in public, in private, he wanted nothing more than to crawl in his bed with its plush duvet and hide. Rommath had never seen him in such a state, and to be frank, it terrified him.

_“Are you sure you should be doing this?” Astalor had asked, warily observing as Rommath picked the lock to Kael’s posh apartment. “Perhaps he isn’t home.”_

_“He is home,” Rommath muttered. “It is two in the afternoon and he is home. That’s enough to warrant breaking in.” He heard the click of the lock a moment after the arcane ping. “There we go. Come on, Astalor.” The door swung open without further ado and Astalor, looking as though he seriously questioned all of Rommath’s life decisions up to this point, followed._

_“You do this often?” his friend asked. “Trespass?”_

_“It’s not trespassing if you’re friends,” Rommath replied._

_A pause. “This is why I deadbolt my door, you know.”_

_Rommath ignored him. He fixated instead on Kael’s shoes, thrown haphazard across the floor. His cloak in a heap. The housekeeper hadn’t come by in some time, it seemed, for there were empty plates and glassware scattered about. His wines, ciders, and the good dwarvish ale had all been drunk, one bottle in pieces against the wall, an ugly purple stain the only reminder it had ever existed in the first place._

_(If it bothered Rommath that Kael had worked himself up over a woman_ － _and it did_ － _Rommath ignored that too. This was not about him. This was about Kael. He could stew in his own anger later.)_

_His bedroom was cleaner, if only because Kael had cocooned himself inside his sheets._

_“Kael.”_

_Kael did not answer. Worry made Rommath rash. He seized the blankets and ripped them off._

_“Kael’thas.”_

_Kael hardly reacted, curled in on himself as he was, and he wasn’t intoxicated or asleep or dead. Rommath felt cold._

_Astalor dropped to his knees, rested his arms on the edge of the bed and his head on his arms. “Kael,” he said, his voice tinged with concern. Astalor had always been better than Rommath, his voice softer, his energy calmer. Kael looked at him._

_It had been six days since Arthas’s banquet. Kael had left his apartments twice. It wasn’t like him. It was downright scary. Kael should have been taking full advantage of their free time, hosting parties and shopping and whoring. Not moping over Jaina fucking Proudmoore._

_(Lady Jaina had mentioned the other day she had not seen Kael, and did Rommath know where he might be? Rommath had had to resist the urge to scream at her.)_

_Astalor was with him. Astalor was his rock. He had asked Astalor to come because if he had walked in to this or worse, Rommath honestly did not know what he would have done. He did not know what to do now. To give himself something, he threw open Kael’s wardrobe, rifling through the clothes and pulling an outfit at random. Tossed it on the bed. This was familiar. This he knew._

_“Didn’t you say we’d be doing a tavern crawl this week?” Astalor was saying._

_“I’ve changed my mind,” Kael mumbled. Rommath threw a pair of hose with more force than strictly necessary._

_“You know Rommath and I don’t know all the good places like you do. Telonicus complained our choice of ale tasted like pisswater.”_

_(Telonicus had said nothing of the sort, because Rommath and Astalor had not gone anywhere, with him or anyone else.)_

_“You would drink pisswater,” Kael mourned._

_Rommath had even tossed smallclothes on the bed and still Astalor was attempting to reason with Kael. He couldn’t… It hurt, listening to Astalor begging his friend to be normal._

_“Kael,” he snapped. “Get up. We’re going out.” He shoved Astalor over, seized Kael by the arm, and dragged him by the wrist. “I’ll run you a bath_ － _Light, you need one_ － _and then we’re going drinking. Don’t argue.”_

 _“I don’t want to go_ － _”_

_“Shut up. We’re going.” He threw Kael bodily into the washroom and turned on the taps. (He even perfumed the water from Kael’s selection of oils.) Kael stood there, staring at him, unmoving. Rommath huffed._

_“Strip,” Rommath ordered. “I won’t have you embarrassing yourself going out like that. Don’t make me wash you too.” He left, shutting the door behind him, and breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the water sloshing several minutes later._

Kael hadn’t been enthusiastic at first. Rommath and Astalor had borne all the weight, carried all the conversation. Tonight though, they had gone to Cantrips and Crows, a shadier tavern that attracted travellers. Astalor had suggested it. (Rommath thought all the alcohol had started going to his head. Astalor in his right mind would _never_ want to visit such a seedy location.) And Kael, steadily, had become more of his old self. It had been four days. 

They sat at a table to themselves. Astalor had just lost spectacularly to a group of rowdy dwarves at a game of cards, handing over his entire coin purse in defeat. Kael was engaging in an animated, though clumsy, discussion with the group in their own language, his cheeks ruddy and eyes alive. 

“Rommath!”

He turned, his eyes widening in shock as he caught sight of a very familiar, very angry face. What on Azeroth was Neeluu doing _here?_

“Neeluu.” He tripped in his haste to rush to her, to protect her from the stares of passers-through and drunken idiots. The entire reason for drinking at Cantrips and Crows was to _avoid_ wellbred ladies. If Neeluu was here, then perhaps Jaina…

“Where’s Kael’thas?” she demanded. He had never seen her so cross. Instantly he was on alert, shifting to block Kael from her view. It wasn’t hard; he was taller than her.

“Is something the matter?” He felt he was slurring, and he frowned. Surely he hadn’t had _that_ much to drink? 

Neeluu scowled. “He said _terrible_ things to Jaina,” she hissed. “It’s no one’s business but Jaina’s what she does and with whom!”

Oh no. He hadn’t. Oh, Kael…

At that moment, Kael let out a peal of laughter, his voice unmistakable among the dwarves’. Neeluu honed in, Kael’s voice a beacon for her anger. She dove around Rommath, stormed in the prince’s direction.

“Neeluu! Neeluu, wait!”

She glared at him. He had to be fast. 

“Do not say anything to upset him.” Was he loud? He didn’t know. He dared a look at Kael, but his friend was still chuckling with the dwarves, ribbing Astalor good-naturedly for his loss. 

“Why?” the Light of Dawn demanded. “I’m sure his ego could stand to be taken down a peg.”

Rommath flinched. He felt he was betraying Kael, spilling his secrets, but he could not allow all of his and Astalor’s work undone by one mention of Jaina. He leaned in, so that his words were shared between himself and Neeluu alone. 

“Kael has been not himself,” he confided. “Please, trust me when I say that he did not mean his words. He has been most upset. This is the first in a week Astalor and I have been able to rouse him from his home.”

(Rommath knew for certain that whatever Kael had told Jaina he had meant tenfold, but he hoped the small lie would keep Neeluu at bay.)

Neeluu was silent, her lips pressed into a thin line. Rommath prayed she would not press him for more detail. 

“Neeluu?”

Fuck.

Kael staggered over, his face plastered over with a wide grin. “This is no place for a lady,” he admonished. “What are you doing here?”

_Please._

Astalor was looking at them, surprise evident on his face. 

“Have you gotten lost?” Kael prompted. 

Neeluu tore her eyes from Rommath and smiled. “Not at all,” she told him. “I had thought this the answer to my puzzle this week.” She wrinkled her nose. “But I believe I read it incorrectly.”

_Oh thank the Light._

Kael was confused. “Puzzle?”

“Some of us have lessons still,” she reminded him. “We are not all waiting on exam results.”

“Pity to be you.” Kael stuck his tongue out at her, well and truly drunk. 

“Would you like help?” Astalor asked, and Neeluu shook her head. 

“Of course not,” she chided. “Do not allow me to intrude on your… _festivities.”_

“At least allow me to see you out then,” he offered. Rommath could have kissed him. “As Kael said, this is no place for a lady.”

Neeluu rolled her eyes. “I got myself in just fine.”

“I’ll take her,” Rommath said quickly. “Kael, sit down.” He extended his arm to her.

“You can yell at him then,” she muttered dangerously, as she allowed him to walk her through the crowded bar. “The _nerve_ of him. Jaina is so upset, Rommath.”

(He really didn’t give a shit what Kael had said at the moment. He just wanted to get Neeluu as far away from Kael as possible.)

“I will,” he lied. (And he was lying quite a lot lately. He needed to stop that. It was a bad habit.) “Thank you, for not saying anything.”

Neeluu hummed. “Well. I suppose it wouldn’t have done anything in the end anyway,” she sniffed. They’d reached the door, and she let go. “Good luck on your exams.”

He nodded. “Thank you.” He watched her leave, to be sure, and then turned around to find Kael, only to find him deep in a drinking competition with his new dwarf friends that he was sure to lose.

(He did, and Rommath and Astalor both spent the night in his apartments, taking turns nannying him and each other, as near the end Kael had persuaded them to join and they hadn’t been able to turn him down.)

* * *

“Rommath?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you suppose there’s someone out there for everyone?”

It was very early. Rommath twisted to better see Astalor, spread out on the floor where he’d fallen asleep. Astalor lay on his back, head pillowed on his arms. Somewhere close by, Kael slept on, drunkenly oblivious to the world.

“I would think,” he answered. He thought of Kael in that moment, poor confused Kael.

Astalor sighed. “Someone like that?” And for a moment, Rommath was afraid he’d spoken his thoughts aloud, or worse, that Astalor _knew_ of his affection for Kael. (It was only an affection, he told himself over and over.) But then Astalor said, “Someone who makes one feel the way Kael feels about Lady Jaina?” and Rommath’s fears abated.

“Astalor.” Rommath rolled onto his stomach. “What’s this about?”

His friend was quiet for a long moment, his eyes searching the ceiling as though it might speak for him. Rommath knew Astalor approached relationships quite differently than himself and Kael. Astalor was a romantic. He didn’t believe in the sort of secretive, clandestine affairs Rommath carried on, nor did he approve of Kael’s girl of the day lifestyle. He wanted the sort of long-lasting, timeless romance of the classics, the sort his parents had had. 

(Rommath didn’t know if such a woman existed who wanted the same, but he would never admit such a thing.)

“I’ve never felt so strongly about a woman,” Astalor admitted. “Not as Kael feels about Jaina.” He fiddled with a lock of his hair. “My father has told me I may marry for love, but… Perhaps, once I return home, an arranged marriage may not be so terrible.”

“What?” Astalor had to still be drunk, to be spouting such nonsense. Or Rommath had to still be drunk, to imagine him saying it.

“Many arranged marriages result in love,” Astalor went on. “I don’t seem to be very successful on my own, so－”

“Astalor. Shut up.”

Astalor looked at him, craning his neck. Rommath propped himself up on an elbow, not caring that it made his stomach queasy.

“That is the most imbecilic thing you’ve ever said.” 

Astalor’s eyes widened. Rommath was never harsh with Astalor.

Rommath pointed a finger at him. “You’re _lucky,_ Astalor,” he growled. “Your father bestowed on you _choice._ Kael and I don’t have that. Capernian, Neeluu, Telonicus － all of us will be told _Your mother and I have decided you’re marrying Lord or Lady So-and-So_ and we will have to do that. But you?” He forced a breath of air out in a facsimile of a laugh. “You have the luxury of doing everything in those awful books you read."

“They’re not aw－”

“The lifestyle Kael and I lead, the one you so heavily look down upon, is our only taste of that.” He scowled. “And you want to give up your freedom because… because…” He groped for the proper words to express himself, angry suddenly at his life and Astalor’s simplicity and Kael’s misery. “Because you’re about to be an archmage and haven’t found a wife?”

Astalor said nothing.

“When would you have had time to look? Properly look? Unlike some people we know, you actually take your work seriously!” He pinched at the bridge of his nose, irritated. “Please, tell me you’re still drunk. There’s no way otherwise you would possibly have said that.”

A pause. “I’m still drunk,” his friend said carefully. 

“I knew it.” Rommath lay back down on the floor. His head hurt. The Dark Iron ale last night had not been the best idea (and he did not even _like_ ale).

Somewhere in the apartment, Kael had started snoring again, as he always did when he drank. It was a comforting sound.

“It’s just… lonely,” Astalor said quietly, after a moment. 

And Rommath sighed, his thoughts returning to Kael. “I know.”

“I feel as though I’m… not right,” his friend confided. “Something must be wrong with me.”

(And Rommath nearly laughed, fought with himself to suppress it, because if there was something wrong with anyone here, it was with him, not Astalor. Of that he was sure.)

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Astalor,” he said firmly. “You’ll find someone, and she’ll love you like in all the sonnets, and you her.”

“You think so?” How he hated the doubt in Astalor’s voice. Between the three of them, Astalor was the best of them all. 

“Yes,” he swore. “And in thousands of years, your love story will be spoken of by romantic fools just like you.”

Astalor chuckled then, a real and sober laugh of the sort Rommath hadn’t heard in days. “Alright then. I trust in your wisdom.”

And Kael, too, would find someone. He would not be brought down by Jaina fucking Proudmoore. She wasn’t even good enough for him. She had never been good enough for him. Rommath would see Kael happy if it killed him.

* * *

“Exams are in!”

“Did you see?”

“What are you results?”

“I hope I passed.”

“Oh, look for me; I’m scared!”

The Silver Enclave was loud and alive. Students were cheering and hugging each other, whooping with joy and clutching letters to their chests. Apprentices skittered around them on their way to class. Others stared in shock, their letters revealing news they could not believe whether good or bad. A good portion of potential archmages had failed, and they took to the news as any upset mage might, crying and being consoled and storming back to their apartments. 

“How did you do?” Telonicus asked mildly. He had not taken his exams this year, despite his instructor’s urging. 

“I passed, of course,” Capernian said haughtily. “I expected nothing less.”

He hummed approvingly. “Very good. Perhaps we ought to celebrate?” 

(Rommath suspected that after the disastrous end of their affair, Capernian had taken up with Telonicus. He was a rather good looking elf, with a strong jaw and large shoulders, and he wished her well.)

“A party at your place?” she asked.

“Of course not,” he said immediately. “It’s a disaster.”

“Did you pass, Rommath?” 

“I’m waiting for Kael,” he said. Astalor had gone with Aethas to get his results, though Aethas had not taken the exams. Rommath thought he’d merely wanted Aethas’s company, to make up for all the time spent with him and Kael, and he could not fault him for that. His friend had promised to catch up with them later.

“Must you do everything with him?” Capernian pouted. 

“Must you do everything with Telonicus?” he shot back.

“Yes,” the man in question deadpanned. “Please. Take her away.”

Capernian shoved him.

“Wishing you luck!” came a voice, and two heads, one black and one blonde, came into view, proving themselves a moment later to be Neeluu and Jaina on their way to class. It had been Jaina who had spoken.

“I passed,” Capernian boasted. 

“Well hello then, Archmage Capernian,” Neeluu giggled. 

“Finally someone who shows me proper respect!” 

“I won’t cater to you,” Telonicus muttered. He had pulled out a book ( _The Lost City of Mechagon_ ) and begun to read.

“I am an _archmage,”_ Capernian insisted.

“Still the same person,” Telonicus replied mildly. “If I didn’t require your alchemical formulae, I wouldn’t be here.”

Capernian rolled her eyes.

“And you, Rommath?” Jaina was looking at him now. 

(He had tried, whenever Jaina was around, to be polite. It was not entirely her fault that Kael had fallen for her, because Kael was an idiot of the highest regard. But whenever Jaina was near him, he now felt an urge to incinerate something, and he often had to quickly tamp that down.)

“I haven’t looked yet. Kael and I were going to open our letters together,” he said pointedly. He didn’t want Jaina to be here when Kael sauntered in (because of course Kael would saunter, with his excellent results).

“We should be getting to class,” Neeluu said. (Bless her.) 

“Good luck!” Jaina called. She allowed her friend to steer her from the Enclave, nearly the moment Kael came in by the other door. (He did indeed saunter.)

“You looked, didn’t you?” Rommath asked dryly.

“Of course not!” Kael showed him his letter, still sealed with violet wax. “I would never break my word to you, Rommath.”

“Open it!” Capernian urged. “I need to know how much better I did than Rommath!”

“He probably did better than you,” Telonicus remarked.

“Thank you, Telonicus.” Rommath preened.

“On three?” Kael asked.

“On three.” Rommath slipped his finger under the seal of his own letter. “One.”

“Two.”

“You two are insufferable.”

“Three!”

There was a sound of ripping, the popping sound of the wax, the shuffling of papers. Hungry eyes devoured the words before them. Their exams had been twofold, a practical and a written. The written had been easy, Rommath had thought. 

They had been out of 800 and needed a score of 700 to pass. The practical exam made up the bulk of the grade, and a separate scoresheet existed to assess enunciation, fingerwork, and accuracy. 

Beside him, Kael chuckled. “Of course,” he said. “I’ve passed. As if we expected anything else. Full marks.”

Rommath hardly heard him. He added the numbers in his head, twice in fact, but they matched the number on his letter every time.

697.

He had received 697 points. He’d fallen three points shy of passing. 

He’d _failed_ his archmage exams.

He couldn’t breathe.

Someone was talking. They may have been talking to him. He didn’t know. He wasn’t listening. 

Five hundred years of work. Hard work. Private tutoring since he was twenty years old. A personal invitation to the Royal Academy of Silvermoon, the Magisterium, personal companion and studymate to the crown prince of Quel’Thalas and studies in Dalaran paid for by the crown. All to fail by three points. 

_Three points._

There had to be a mistake. 

“Rommath? Rommath, how’d you do?”

He couldn’t… he couldn’t be here.

“Where are you going?”

“Rommath?”

“I don’t think he did well.”

He needed air.

* * *

It was quiet in the gardens. The students who had passed were celebrating, already filling the bars despite the early morning. The students who hadn’t… Well, Rommath was one of those now, wasn’t he?

“There you are.”

“Go away, Kael.”

As usual, Kael didn’t listen. He sat down beside Rommath, right there on the grass, his back to the wall. He said nothing. Just sat there, listening to the muffled shouting from inside the Enclave, the cheering in the streets, the hurrying of the younger students on their way to lessons. Rommath felt like crying. 

He was still the boy from Tranquillien. The one who couldn’t conjure, who got cold fingers but couldn’t produce ice. The one who hadn’t even remembered the first rule of magic, that it was unusual to be proficient in more than one school. How could he have thought he’d pass his exams? How could he have thought he’d become an archmage? He should have studied more. Indulged Kael and his whims less. Worked harder at his Darnassian － no doubt that had hurt him, when so many books were written in the language. 

He crumpled the letter in his fist. Three Lightdamned points. 

He’d worked _so hard._

What would Belo’vir say? And the king? They had paid for him to be here. They hadn’t paid for him to fail. Surely they had expected _Kael_ to come up short, hadn’t expected him to so quickly buckle down, but Rommath? They’d had high hopes for him.

What would his _father_ say?

( _Make me proud, son._ )

Rommath covered his face with one hand, his eyes burning. He bit his lip. 

His mother had sent him a letter the week of his exams. The envelope had been thick, packed with letters from his brothers, the cook, the housekeeper. All wishing him luck. His sister had sent him a blessed symbol of the Light, promising to pray twice as hard for his success. Grand Magister Belo’vir, too, had sent him (and Kael, and Astalor) all letters of luck.

He had let them all down.

He felt an arm drape around him, warm and safe. Kael pulled him close to his side, gentle but firm. He had let Kael down too, and with that thought, Rommath broke.

Kael said nothing as he cried, his hold never ceasing. At one point he squeezed Rommath’s shoulder, and the kindness drew forth a choked sob. Rommath didn’t break as Kael had over Jaina. There was no screaming or drinking or stammered declarations. He drew into himself, sniffled quietly at Kael’s side, hating himself and feeling terrible.

“It’s alright,” Kael murmured, and the venom Rommath swallowed nearly made him laugh. What was alright about this? “It’s not the end of the world.”

There was blood in his mouth. He’d bitten his lip too hard. He didn’t care.

“You can take them again next year.” Kael’s voice was soothing, his thumb rubbing small circles over Rommath’s shoulder. He was staring at one of the flower bushes, as though he knew Rommath felt too fragile for his eyes.

“I let everyone down,” Rommath mumbled, his voice very small.

“You didn’t,” Kael said. “And fuck what they think anyway.”

Rommath stared at the crumpled letter in his lap.

“It only matters what you think,” Kael told him. 

“I think I’m pretty stupid,” Rommath admitted. 

“I don’t.”

A bird called out somewhere above them. There was the sound of wings and then a dash of brown as it flew away. 

“I think you’re the smartest person I know,” Kael went on. 

“I _failed,”_ Rommath said flatly.

Kael snorted. “You probably lost points during the practical,” he pointed out. “Too focused on trying to look good for extra points and not on trying to do well in the first place.” He reached up and rapped his knuckles gently against Rommath’s head. “Aren’t you always on me to stop showing off when I do magic?”

(He _had_ been trying to show off. Tried to act like Kael. He’d known it would get him more points.)

He prised the letter from Rommath’s fist with his free hand and looked it over. “Ah. See?” Smoothed it over one knee and pointed a slender finger here and there. “Look. Did you read this? It’s exactly as I said.”

Rommath didn’t want to look. He didn’t want to see the glaring 697 again.

“You’ll take it again next year, and you’ll take it more calmly,” Kael said. “Be… Well, don’t try and be me.” He chuckled, not knowing. “I only received full marks for my flourishes. I was told to work on my basics.” 

“You don’t need help with basics,” Rommath muttered.

“That’s what they said,” Kael insisted. “I can show you.”

He shook his head. He didn’t want to see Kael’s 800 either. 

“Practice with me?” Kael asked. 

“Aren’t you going to leave Dalaran?” The thought left him cold. Dalaran without Kael would be lonely. Painful.

Kael laughed. “Of course not!” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I’m nowhere near ready to return home,” he told Rommath. “There’s still so much to learn. And besides,” he added, “I could never leave you behind.”

Rommath huffed gently. “You would be lost without me.”

Kael grinned. “I would.”

“Can’t even do _basic_ magic.”

“Can’t even do basic magic,” Kael lamented. “Clearly the Six made a mistake. I must have failed, and you’ve passed.”

Rommath rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

“And who would buy your quills if I left?” Kael asked. “You don’t even know where the shop is.”

“I can buy quills.”

“You won’t buy the right quills,” Kael insisted. “I’ll receive letters written in horrible, blotchy scrawl complaining about broken tips and poor feather quality.”

(Rommath couldn’t disagree. He _knew_ he’d been to the shop before, but he could not recall its name, or where in the shopping district it was located.)

“You’ll practice with me?” Kael tried again. “I need to learn my basics, you know.”

He knew it was for his benefit. He knew. But Kael’s earnest attempts at sparing his feelings, his genuine affection, the way Kael’s arm felt around him and that damned thumb rubbing against his shoulder… Rommath couldn’t help the small noise that escaped him. It could vaguely be categorized as a laugh.

“Yes, yes,” he grumbled. “Someone has to.”

Kael grinned, his mission accomplished with the sound of the laugh. “Yes,” he agreed. “Someone has to look out for me.” 

Rommath rolled his eyes. They were decidedly less watery now. He still didn’t feel _good_ about himself, and he still had to inform his family of his failure… His hands shook at the thought.

“Hey,” Kael said softly. Rommath looked at him, was taken aback by the concern on his face. By the _seriousness_ on his face. “Don’t start again. You’re too good to be self loathing, Rommath.”

Rommath set his jaw. “I just… I still have to tell my family,” he said. “And the Grand Magister－”

“ _Fuck_ what they think.” Kael’s eyes were steel. “Alright?” His hand squeezed Rommath’s shoulder again. “If they say something rude, come to me. I’ll set you right again.”

(Rommath did take the exam the following year. He received full marks, and when Kael began boasting it had been all his doing, Rommath reminded him that without his extra points, Kael had only scored a 754, while he had scored a 795 without flourishes at all.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tend to write my past chapters in two parts, and I knew this one would hit hard. First Kael and his absolute wreck of a heartbreak. Kael, bb, I feel you. I know that kind of heartbreak. It's awful. The kind where you cry every single day, to the point where you avoid the shower because it's become a trigger for your breakdowns. (That was a truly awful five months of my life.) And then exams. You all thought it would be Jaina pt2 when Neeluu stormed in the club, didn't you? 
> 
> Poor Astalor and his liver. The sacrifices he hath made this week in the name of friendship.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get heated during War Talk(TM); Rommath continues on his journey of self discovery by taking a stroll down Lane of Painful Memories and then up What The Fuck Alley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? I'm on a roll. (.-.)(:I )(゜-゜)( I:) (.-.)(:I )(゜-゜)( I:)

It was all very simple on parchment. Deliver the head of Dar’Khan Drathir, and Sylvanas would vouch for them to the orcs. She had already ingratiated herself, having dealt swiftly and mercilessly with the Scourge in Lordaeron, beaten back the Scarlet Crusade, and cajoled the dreadlord (a  _ dreadlord! _ ) Varimathras to her cause. She had sent envoys to Orgrimmar across the Great Sea, and farther still to the home of the tauren. She had pledged a score of her people －  _ the Forsaken, _ they were calling themselves, those who now resisted the will of the Lich King － to aid in the fortification of Tranquillien, and a further score of Dark Rangers to assist in the taking of Deatholme, that blasphemous necropolis that sat upon that ruins of the trader city Morningstar and the wreckage of the great tree Thas’alah. 

It was so simple on parchment.

“How can we trust her?” 

This question came from Neeluu. A meeting of this importance had required all of their combined strength, and Lor’themar Theron called together the Warden, the Blood Matriarch, the Ranger General, the Grand Magister, and the High Priest. (Rommath supposed Kath’mar’s opinion was important, but given his distaste for the man, he would have preferred to exclude him.) Liadrin had brought with her Astalor, to no one’s protest, and Lady Neeluu went nowhere without Tyrael Flamekissed; but their assistants and apprentices had been dismissed, and they eight sat at the long table in the Phoenix Court, deep in thought as they had been every day since Sylvanas had left them her terms. 

“I mislike this,” Flamekissed joined in. “She is undead. Did we not fight a war against the Scourge?”

Lor’themar frowned but it was Halduron who spoke. “Sylvanas is a  _ hero, _ ” he growled. “She saved thousands of lives, as you well know. She gave her life to protect Quel’Thalas.”

“She is  _ also _ undead,” Flamekissed argued. “She served under the Lich King.”

“She was released!” Halduron was growing angry, rising to the defense of his former commander. “You weren’t there at our meeting! You didn’t hear how she spoke! She desires nothing more than Drathir’s head on a pike!”

“Halduron,” Lor’themar said calmly. “Tyrael.”

(It was rather out of character for Halduron Brightwing to spit at anyone who wasn’t Rommath. Rommath didn’t know if he was impressed or concerned.)

To Neeluu, the Regent Lord said, “Halduron and I served under Sylvanas for nearly fourteen hundred years. We knew her well, and when she fell, it was a great blow to us and all Farstriders. To hear her pledge her support…” He spread his hands. “I expected nothing less. She may be Forsaken now, but she will  _ always _ be a daughter of Quel’Thalas.”

Liadrin was nodding. “She died protecting this land. She would die again to wrest it back from the Scourge.”

Rommath didn’t know if that was the answer Neeluu or Flamekissed sought, but Neeluu voiced no other objection. “If you trust her, Lor’themar,” she said carefully.

“As deeply as I do Halduron and Rommath,” Lor’themar said seriously.

(Rommath didn’t miss how Kath’mar’s face blanched at the mention of his name.)

Neeluu folded her hands upon the table and nodded. “By all means, then,” she said. “Go on.”

Rommath had not seen the Lady Neeluu since that awkward morning several days previous where he had woken up with her in his arms. He did not understand how she could sit there, prim and calm in her silks and halo, how she did not blush at the sight of him. He had seen her in such a vulnerable state, tears streaming down her face and wet strands of hair clinging to her cheeks, and he had  _ held her _ (he cringed at the thought, at the state of undress they had both been in; no matter how  _ admirably _ she’d said he’d behaved, it had been wrong wrong wrong); and he knew from the glittering in Halduron’s eye that he’d certainly flushed at her entrance.

She was speaking to Flamekissed, something about the number of Dawnblade available for the taking of Deatholme, and Astalor wrote the number down and promised to speak to the Shattered Sun. Why did they need the Shattered Sun? The elves? And Liadrin joined in, counting off in groups of twenty the number of paladins and blood knights, and Kath’mar offered a number of priests, and Astalor wrote those down too. Halduron pledged every available Farstrider, and at Lor’themar’s surprised look, insisted, “Their General died for them. They have no right to refuse,” and perhaps they would have words in private but Lor’themar gave no argument and after a moment Astalor had a rather sizable number of rangers. 

They were looking at him. It took Rommath a moment to remember why.

Erindae would not have let him falter like that.

“I think perhaps there are…” He scrambled for a tally in his head. The Magisterium boasted thousands of mages, the Sanctum thousands more. But how many, truly, could stand before the might of Deatholme? How many could do so and  _ live? _

How many could he afford to lose?

“I would need a list of names,” he apologized. “Our work is more delicate than a simple numbers game.” He doubted they would understand that. Rangers, they never did. They wanted bodies. “I would give you a thousand from the Academy. After discussion, I will have a solid number.”

He saw Kath’mar roll his eyes. He decided not to say anything. 

“Is that all?” the High Priest asked.

“Excuse me?”

(Rommath couldn’t ignore a direct question. That would be rude.)

“Only one thousand mages?” Kath’mar scoffed. “Halduron has pledged every Farstrider, at least two thousand souls; and Lady Liadrin all her blood knights and eight hundred paladins. The Chapel will supply its  _ most learned _ priests and fifteen hundred more, and the Warden saw fit to give us an entire third of her forces.”

“I  _ can _ count,” Rommath sneered.

“So why,” Kath’mar continued, “will the Magisters send the least? Out of all of us, Grand Magister, you have the most power at your disposal. The Royal Academy has, what?, ten thousand mages? Not counting the children, you have far more to give than any of us. And you pledge a measly thousand.”

“One mage is worth three men, High Priest,” Rommath said icily. 

“Don’t give me that,” Kath’mar spat. “Are your mages too good to see the front lines? Is that it?”

“Kath’mar,” Liadrin began, “that is－”

“Or are you planning something else for them?” 

Rommath shot from his chair so fast he knocked it over. “Such as?” he demanded. “Say it. Tell the Regent Lord what you believe I’ll do with nine thousand mages!”

The High Priest remained in his seat, calm to Rommath’s storm. He would not rise to the bait, not openly, not in front of the man he so admired and the woman who’d appointed him. “I’m asking you, Grand Magister. Why not send an army of ten thousand strong to the gates of Deatholme?”

Rommath felt flame licking up from his core. “And you? Why not send every priest? The children too?”

“ _ Enough. _ ” 

Lor’themar’s voice bellowed out angry and strong. He was scowling, the black leather patch over his ruined eye turning his kind face cold. “I will not have bickering at my war council.” He levied them all with a steely glare, as if asking for a challenge. Rommath felt hot.

“I trust Rommath’s judgement.” The proclamation fell like the great tree Thas’alah, when Drathir had had it cut down. “Should you, High Priest, or  _ anyone _ have concerns, please bring them to me.” 

“Let’s formulate a plan of attack.” Liadrin was nodding, agreeing with Lor’themar, and producing a map of the southlands. 

“I’ll go,” Rommath said suddenly.

“Pardon?”

“When we take Deatholme.” Rommath’s eyes were locked on the High Priest’s. He hoped they’d caught fire, that the fire spread to the other man and consumed him from the inside out. “I’ll go.”

“You can’t go,” Astalor protested. 

“I went and retook Tranquillien,” Rommath snapped. “And I will go to Deatholme.” 

For a moment no one said anything. No one could say anything. The only one with the power to overrule Rommath was the Regent Lord, who considered him thoughtfully. For several long, painful minutes, Lor’themar stared at him, and Rommath glared back, challenging the other man to deny him. But finally, Lor’themar nodded, and turned to Liadrin.

“Let’s formulate a plan of attack.”

* * *

He wanted to talk to Kael. 

It bothered him. Kael was dead. 

Kael was dead and what he thought didn’t matter and what he’d say didn’t matter, because he was dead and Rommath wasn’t, but he still stood at his window, watching the light die in the sky, looking in the direction of Quel’Danas.

He remembered when he’d reclaimed Tranquillien. It had been a collaborative effort between the Farstriders and the new paladins. Rommath had insisted on going, despite Lor’themar’s misgivings. He’d needed to see what had become of his home.

Goldenmist had been lost. He’d known that, had read the reports, but to  _ see _ it in person, overrun with the ghosts of slaughtered quel’dorei… He’d had nightmares for weeks. His aunt’s family, thankfully, had not been among them, and Rommath hadn’t known then if that had been good or bad. (They too had perished. But they were not undead nor spirits, and that was some comfort.) Suncrown was in no better shape. A city of creatures with spiderlike legs, clicking in some ancient and harsh language. His sister and her company of paladins had reported them too many in number. Suncrown to this day was still uninhabitable.

(He remembered his father promising to take them for Midsummer at Suncrown when they were all but children. Suncrown Village’s Midsummer Fire Festivals were legendary. He had never been able to fulfill his word, overtaxed with the Amani raiders and the increasing Farstrider demands of Tranquillien.)

Tranquillien had become a ghost town. The spider creatures and undead had blighted every living thing from his hometown, and the southerners who had joined the cause rallied. An abomination had held the town when the reclaimers swept through. It had not been an easy battle. Rommath slew many of the people he remembered from his childhood. The woman who ran the bakery, and her two little girls. The tailor who’d so quickly sewn him three sets of new clothing for his journey to Silvermoon. His cook. His youngest brother.

He remembered watching his sister, held together only by her armor. Together they’d marched past the gate to their childhood home. He’d wanted to protect her. To him, Auriel was still the little girl he’d left behind when he’d started his schooling in Silvermoon. Whatever awaited them in their destroyed family manor was not for her eyes. But it had been Auriel who’d kicked down their front door, her boot leaving an imprint on the splintered wood. It had been Auriel to swing first, when the ghouls had come. Their brother Merhean, screaming without breath, his curls plastered flat to his scalp. Their mother. Their housekeeper. Their father. No one in their family had escaped, save himself and Auriel, and Auriel’s sword sang and Rommath’s flames roared and the tears flowed freely as they laid their family’s souls to rest. 

Tranquillien had been difficult. Until the burying Kael and his sister, returning to the place of his birth had been the most difficult thing he had ever done. He still had nightmares, still saw his mother’s brittle skin go up in flames as he burned their bodies. Still saw the sword wrenched from his brother’s chest, dripping black ichor. 

He often tried to suppress those memories. Auriel had only become more devout after that night, the Light － and later Astalor － her saving grace. And Rommath… Rommath clung to his anger. Used it as fuel. Dabbled in blood magics with it, anything to make use of the ever present  _ rage _ inside him. 

When Kael died, the firestorm went out. All his emotions left him. And his sister did too. 

He’d volunteered today, in anger, to return to Tranquillien for the first time in eight years. To storm Deatholme. 

He didn’t know if he could actually do it. 

He needed Kael right now. He needed Kael to tell him it was alright, he could do this. Tranquillien was a living town again, a beacon of hope in the gloom of the Ghostlands. He needed Kael to drape an arm around his shoulders, to reassure him that it was okay, that he would be  _ safe _ there. That he wouldn’t have to kill anyone there. That his family was dead and buried and Rommath had done the best thing by being the person to give them true death. 

(He had never told Kael how badly the reclamation of Tranquillien had affected him. He had never told anyone. Only Auriel knew, and Auriel was dead too.)

Kim’alah announced herself with a soft mewl and landed soundlessly on the windowsill, shoving her head under Rommath’s hand gracelessly. Rommath sighed and scooped her up, where she butted his chin with her head, purring loudly. 

“You can’t come with,” he told her, more to fill the silence than anything else. 

Kim’alah purred.

“I know you’ve been to the Undercity,” he murmured, scratching behind her ear distractedly. “But this is different.”

“Mrow?” She batted at his fingers.

“It’s too dangerous,” he told her firmly. “And I’ve lost…” His eyes burned suddenly, and he sucked in a sharp breath of air. “I won’t lose you too.”

He liked to think Kim’alah understood that. She was, after all, a very smart cat. She nuzzled his chin until he pet her again, and he buried his face in her soft fur, eyes stinging. He couldn’t lose Kim’alah too. She was his very last connection to Kael.

* * *

“Grand Magister. My Lady requests a word.”

Rommath raised an eyebrow. He did not entertain in his home, often outright refused visitors to his home. Tyrael Flamekissed looked less enthused than he, a scowl twisting his features and his eyes murderous. It had been some time since he had seen such a look on the Dawnblade captain.

“Might I inquire as to the nature of this word?” Rommath inspected his nails. “It is quite late, and I had intended to retire with a glass of wine.”

Flamekissed ground his teeth. “I am not privy,” he admitted reluctantly. “My Lady has requested to speak in the Small Court.”

(Perhaps Kael had rubbed off on Rommath. He had never been able to resist riling up Tyrael Flamekissed.)

“Shall I bring the wine?” he asked mildly. “It’s good Suntouched Special Reserved.”

“I would not,” Flamekissed hissed. He clenched his fists. 

“You’re right. I believe the Lady Neeluu prefers a nice aged Dalaran red.”

(For all his spies, Rommath had never learned just  _ why _ Captain Flamekissed hated him so. It had begun back in Dalaran, before this nonsense about traitors and the Burning Legion. Kael would have had an answer, if Kael had been here to ask. It would have been a ridiculous answer, but an answer nonetheless.)

“Shall I tell her you decline?” Flamekissed asked through gritted teeth.

“Of course not,” Rommath scoffed. “I’ll go.” He flicked his hand at the window for Kim’alah and stepped out. “Lead on, my good man.”

Flamekissed looked like he wanted to stab him.

Though perhaps egging Flamekissed on had been a bad idea, as the closer Rommath’s feet took him to the Small Court, the more he remembered of his embarrassing last encounter with Neeluu. It had been awful enough to deal with Halduron (and the man would not  _ stop _ , having shot Rommath several pointed looks today, grinning maniacally), but now he would have to address it in so many words before Neeluu  _ and _ Flamekissed?

(Rommath was a firm believer in sweeping uncomfortable things under the rug. His sister had always scoffed at him. “That isn’t  _ healthy, _ Rommath,” she would say, and he would shoot back that Astalor and his  _ feelings _ had clearly gotten to her, because only  _ gnomes _ talked about  _ feelings. _ “I guess he and I are gnomes then!” she’d laugh. “And you would do well to be one too!” She would only roll her eyes when he'd mutter that nobody liked gnomes .)

The Small Court was where he and Kael had spent their time as boys, studying and playing chess and reading old Darnassian epics. A large tapestry decorated one wall, rendering in careful detail the coming of Dath’Remar Sunstrider. A triptych in stained glass adorned another, the colors arranged to form the Sunwell in the middle, Al’ar the phoenix god to the left, and the crowned sigil of House Sunstrider to the right. If asked, Rommath could name every book upon the shelf across from the room; he and Kael had read them all. 

Neeluu stood browsing the shelf, hands clasped before her. She still wore her robes of office, the halo flickering in the magelight. Her ear twitched at their footsteps, Flamekissed’s so much louder than Rommath’s in his plate boots. 

“Thank you, Tyrael,” she said. “You may go.”

“My Lady,” Flamekissed started. “I do not think it wise－”

“We are in the palace,” Neeluu said gently. “With you at the door and guards on patrol. I will be fine.”

The captain looked as though he would protest. But his training was sound; he would not argue in front of Rommath. Bowing his head, he backed out, closing the doors behind him. It was just Rommath and Neeluu alone in the Small Court now.

Neeluu gave him a small smile. “I do apologize,” she said softly. “Since the deaths of my father and brother, Tyrael has become very protective. I fear sometimes he comes off rude.”

Rommath laughed. “Compared to myself, he is positively delightful, or so I’ve heard.”

Neeluu relaxed a little at that. “You always have been a little…”

“Surly?” Rommath supplied.

“I would have said  _ short tempered. _ ” She clasped her hands before her; the gold on her cuffs matched the gold of her halo, shaped like phoenix wings. 

“I would agree with that. As would many others, I’m sure.”

“Rommath.” 

He didn’t think he’d ever get used to seeing her with green eyes. It was different with people like Halduron Brightwing, or even Lor’themar Theron and Liadrin, or the scores of people he saw every day. He hadn’t  _ known _ them, before the Scourge. Not really. But Neeluu. This was someone he had seen every day for decades, someone he had known as a boy. Just as with Astalor, and even Aethas, the change was always a shock. He wondered if he looked the same way to them. If his own green eyes, to them, screamed  _ traitor _ or just  _ odd. _

“Hmm?”

“No one else in that room agreed with Kath’mar,” Neeluu said quietly. “You do know that, don’t you?”

Rommath barked a laugh. “Is that why you wanted to see me?” he asked. “I’m well aware of how I’m viewed in this city. It’s alright.”

Neeluu frowned. “It’s not. I was entangled with Kael’thas as much as you.” She picked at an imaginary thread on her sleeve. “No one treats me like that.”

_ No one can treat you like that. You’re the guardian of our most holy site. You’re different from Kael in every way. No one in Quel'Thalas ever knew Kael. You know the names of every single person who lives on Quel’Danas. And they know you. _

“You’re…” He struggled to find words. “Open. Honest. Things I’ve never been. Your association has always been first with the Sunwell. Mine has always been with Kael.”

Neeluu was quiet as she took that in. He was right, and they both knew it, but she was too polite to agree. The Sunwell, as his sister had told him countless times, was all that was good and holy in the world. Even Thalorien, debaucher and scandalous as he was, had been untouchable. Because of the Sunwell. Because he was the Swordbearer. Because one day he would have inherited the mantle of Warden and the legacy of goodness and holiness himself. And Kael… 

Well. 

Everyone knew how Kael had ended up.

“That’s not really why I asked to speak with you,” Neeluu said after a moment. (His heart sank a little. He’d hoped it was.) 

“Oh?” He couldn’t tell if he was pale at the moment, with how red the tattoos on his arms were, or if they’d always been that way.

“I wanted to apologize,” she began, “for the other night.” 

(Rommath prayed to any god that would listen that Halduron was  _ not around  _ and  _ not listening _ because if the ranger hadn’t thought the worst before, he definitely would now.)

“You caught me in a moment of weakness,” Neeluu went on. “It’s been…” She sucked in a breath. “It’s difficult,” she said finally. She wrapped her arms around herself. “I can’t… I don’t want to let anyone down. I can’t afford to be anything less… less than perfect.”

“No one is perfect,” he started, but she held up a hand. 

“I have to be.” And her voice was a whisper. “I’ve always had to be, but now it’s so, so important. Do you see, Rommath? When we’d lost the Sunwell and my brother, I had to do  _ better. _ My father wouldn’t allow me to return home. It wasn’t safe, he said. And then when he died too…” She sighed.

“Do you know I have no idea what I’m doing?” She let out a small laugh, her eyes watery. “I really don’t. My brother trained for this. I didn’t. I would have never been allowed to go to Dalaran if…” She shook her head. 

“Neeluu, hey.” He took a step forward. “It’s alright. None of us know what we’re doing. None of this is  _ normal. _ ”

“I feel like a fraud sometimes,” she went on, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Trying to remember things my father did. And the other night… Well.” She shrugged helplessly. “I’ve tried very hard to be an upstanding member of my community. Quel’Danas is not the same as Silvermoon. I’m sure you’ve noticed that. It’s all just so  _ much. _ ”

Rommath understood then why she was still in her robes of office. The crimson robes with gilded trim, the stiff halo attached to her collar, it was her armor as much as his high collar was his. She was untouchable in it. It gave her the iron core he had never seen when they were students in Dalaran. 

“It’s one thing after another.” Her voice was soft. Everything about her was soft. It’s what made the phoenix halo so ridiculous. The idea of a queen’s crown and brocade cloak so ridiculous. “My father’s body is missing. My brother is dead.” She bit her lip. “And now with the Sunwell back, I… It just feels like such a weight has been lifted only for another, heavier weight to be placed upon my shoulders.”

The Warden of the Sunwell wore crimson robes, a deep, dark red. In this moment, Rommath thought they looked like the blood of the dead spun into silk, and thought how very apt that was. Perhaps that was why the color of Silvermoon was red.

“I haven’t heard any complaints,” he told her, his voice quiet. “Quel’Thalas is enamored with you. They always have been.”  _ As they never have been or will be with me. _

Neeluu put on a smile for him. “How do you do that?” she asked. “How are you always so blunt?”

He couldn’t help but shrug. “I grew up the oldest of three siblings who never listened.” He gave her a small smile of his own. “And then I babysat Kael, who also never listened.”

She did laugh then, small but real. “He did not, you’re right,” she concurred. And after a moment, “Your siblings… Did they…?”

He shook his head. “I’m the only one.”

“Oh.” A pause. “I’m so sorry.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it. He squeezed back. 

“I’m sorry for yours, too.” 

Another pause. “And Kael’thas.”

Rommath blinked, startled. “And Kael,” he agreed.

She let go and was silent for a long time. Her eyelashes were wet, but she was not crying, not anymore. 

“Can I admit something?” she asked suddenly. She was not looking at him, her gaze fixed somewhere to the left, as though ashamed. 

“Of course.” A strand of her hair had fallen forward; Rommath nearly had an urge to tuck it away. 

“I cared for Kael’thas,” she told him, “a lot. He and my brother were good friends, and I’d known him since I was very young. But…” She hesitated. “I do not think I would have been happy as his queen.”

Rommath’s eyebrows shot into his hairline. “Why do you say that?” he asked carefully.

“Oh, you know what he was like.” (And indeed, Rommath knew intimately.) “I think I could have loved him. I  _ did _ love him, as I loved my brother, but… You know what I mean.” Her cheeks flushed. “He was always one for loud displays and declarations and attention. That’s why he and Thalorien were such good friends. And despite your best attempts to shield me,” (and she did look at him out the side of her eye here) “I was well aware of his lifestyle. I didn’t think that would change.”

(Rommath always did. He’d hoped it would, anyway.)

Neeluu sighed. “But aside from all of that,” she finished, “it was Jaina he loved. And I am not Jaina.”

Rommath drew a sharp intake of breath. He’d never known Neeluu had known about that. He supposed Kael had been rather  _ obvious _ in his flirtations but he’d thought, once Anasterian and Warden Dawnseeker had started discussing betrothal, that Kael had seemed rather devoted. Showering Neeluu with gifts － jewelry, flowers, the hawkstrider － and courting her openly and proudly. Had he been wrong? 

“Why did you say nothing?” he asked. “Your father surely would have rescinded his offer if－”

“Rommath.” Neeluu cut him off gently. Kindly. “Who in their right mind would refuse a prince? My father was a kind man, but you know as well as I that if he broke that betrothal, I would never have found a husband. It would not have been Kael’thas’s fault. It would have been mine.”

(Unfortunately, she was right. Perhaps men of his and Kael’s age would have thought differently, but their parents would not have, even if Neeluu was the Light of Dawn. People such as Rommath's parents, at least, typical of parents at the time, would have judged her heavily for rejecting the favor of the prince of Quel'Thalas.)

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“What is there for you to be sorry for?” 

And Rommath told her. It had been he Anasterian asked, “ _ You know the Light of Dawn, do you not, Rommath? How would you describe her? Her manner, her studiousness? Would you say, and be perfectly honest, that she would be a good match for my son?” _

Neeluu’s eyes went wide. 

“I’d thought at the time it would be best,” Rommath said quickly. “He knew you, and was fond of you, and you were  _ not _ Jaina, and he needed to forget her. I wanted him happy.”

Neeluu stared at him.

(He braced himself. He felt she would either hit him or freeze him in a block of ice.)

She burst into giggles. “Oh Rommath,” she gasped. “You and I… We are both idiots.” She wrapped her arms around her stomach as she laughed helplessly. “We truly loved him, didn’t we?”

Rommath didn’t know how to answer that.

“Your heart was in a good place,” she admitted between giggles. “I wanted him happy too.” Pursing her lips together, trying to stop the giggling, she reached up to unfasten her halo from her collar. 

(He didn’t know how to react to that either.)

“What I wouldn’t give for some of the Legerdemain’s chocolate cake.” Halo off, Neeluu seemed a different person, more the girl he remembered from Dalaran. She set it carefully on the table with a quiet  _ thunk. _ “And good strawberry wine.”

“Strawberry wine?” 

She nodded. “From the South Seas.”

“Those are two completely contradictory palates,” he said. Dalaranian cake and South Seas wine. Who’d ever heard of such a thing?

“They’re not,” she laughed. “They go quite well together. I enjoy something sweet before I retire for the evening.”

“I prefer tea,” he admitted. Few things in the south had ever been sweet. His cook had always said it was the trolls’ voodoo that turned crops bitter. He’d always been partial to bitter brews, did not like sweet liquors, always turned down northern cakes. Neeluu, sweet northern child that she was, loved cakes and creams and sugars. 

“Do you take yours with sugar or milk?” Neeluu asked.

“Neither. I prefer swiftthistle tea,” he told her.

“It’s bitter, isn’t it?”

“Extremely.”

She made a face, and he laughed.

“I grew up in the south,” he explained. “We didn’t get sugar like you northerners.”

“What did you do for treats?” Neeluu complained.

“Bloodvine,” he said. “Ground into a paste and baked.  _ You _ would call it bitter, but it’s plenty sweet to me. We used to have star apples, but with the Scourge…”

They fell silent. Neeluu chewed her lip. After a moment, she reached over. Encircled his wrist with her slender fingers. When she looked at him, her green eyes were full of worry.

“Be careful,” she said. “I know it’s some time until then, but please be careful when you go to Deatholme.”

Her skin felt hot against his. Or maybe his felt hot against hers. He didn’t know. He didn’t understand the faint pink dusting her cheeks, or the sudden concern and hesitancy in her face. His heart hammered. He felt every bit as naked and exposed as he had the other morning on her veranda, found himself wishing he’d worn his high collar. He hadn’t thought he’d need it. It was only Neeluu, after all, and he’d been so busy goading Flamekissed he hadn’t  _ thought _ at all. 

It hadn’t been this difficult to speak to her when she’d only been Neeluu. Just Neeluu, and he’d been only Rommath, and they’d been students back in Dalaran. He didn’t know how to speak to anyone without a title anymore, didn’t how to be just Rommath anymore. He only felt comfortable when he was the Grand Magister, and if she’d put her halo back on he could pretend to slip behind his collar long enough to excuse himself from this conversation. 

He hadn’t known how to be a person since Kael had sent him home from Outland. He’d always been the Grand Magister. He didn’t know who Rommath was anymore.

(Rommath was a distant, broken memory.)

Soft lips pressed against his exposed cheek and with it came the scent of the florals in her hair (he couldn’t place them － chromatic lily, maybe? azerothian rose?) and then they were gone and so were her fingers around his wrist. 

“Be careful,” she repeated. “I’ll pray for you.” And it took him a moment to remember that of course she would, that that’s what someone as immersed in the Sunwell and the Light  _ would _ do, because his first instinct was to look confused and ask  _ “Why?” _ And then she gathered the halo in her arms and bid him goodnight and left before he could really process what had happened.

(What  _ had _ happened?)

* * *

If Astalor was startled when Rommath entered, he hid it well. Rommath hadn’t bothered knocking. He did not knocked. He did not wait for entrance. Other people knocked at  _ his _ door and waited for  _ his _ approval.

“This is a surprise.” Astalor had commandeered a small office with Liadrin. Maps were spread about the desk, little pins to represent troops scattered about. A ring dangled from a gold chain around his neck. Auriel’s ring.

(Rommath didn’t look at his sister’s ring. He felt she was laughing at him.  _ Rommath _ , she’d giggle,  _ seriously? You’re an idiot. _ )

He scowled at the map pins. Green for Farstriders, red for mages, yellow for priests, orange for paladins and blood knights. The black were probably for Sylvanas’s Dark Rangers. When did  _ Astalor, _ of all elves, sweet and timid Astalor, begin planning war campaigns? Astalor, who used to faint at the sight of blood? 

He tossed a tablet of parchment on the desk. “Everything alright, Rommath?” He began searching for an inkwell. 

No. Everything was not alright. 

Rommath didn’t understand why he was so irritated. He’d slept badly last night, but he’d slept badly nearly every night since the Scourge and doubly so in the months since Kael’s death. His morning coffee had been terrible, but that had been no great shock either. Umbric was petitioning his readmittance to the Sanctum and there were rumors of a second petition to tear down Kael’s statues. 

There was ink on Astalor’s fingers. How had he gotten ink on himself? He didn’t even have an inkwell. That irritated Rommath too. 

He’d come to  _ talk _ to his friend… but he didn’t think he could. Something about gnomes and feelings. He didn’t have feelings. Except anger. He was always angry, these days. When he could feel anything at all. 

(He wished people would stop  _ telling him things. _ He almost liked it better when no one spoke to him at all.)

He didn't remember the last time he'd been kissed. Or touched at all. (The other night on the veranda notwithstanding.) He wasn't _Halduron,_ he didn't drown his romantic sorrows in whores at whichever brothel was having a two for one special that day. He was far too busy to seek out relationships, too busy for even the sort of casual affairs he used to have back in Dalaran. (And besides, that would have involved socializing, and who would have wanted to socialize with a traitor? No one of good class, certainly.) 

(He didn't know why any of this bothered him at all.)

He wished Kael were here. He wouldn’t have to explain to Kael. Kael would crack a grin and laugh at him, offer him a glass of heady liquor and say,  _ “Rommath, really? Are you daft?”  _ Or whatever it was Kael said. 

(It pained him that he hardly remembered. It had been so long since he’d joked around with Kael.)

“Rommath?”

“What?” he snapped.

Astalor frowned. He’d found an inkwell, and a quill. “I’ve been talking to you for five minutes,” he said. 

“Apologies.”

This had been a mistake. Astalor would listen, yes, and nod and offer advice in that quiet, consoling way of his. Rommath didn’t want that. He wanted to be pushed. Cajoled. Be made furious until he wanted to smack something. 

He couldn’t talk to Astalor. Not with his sister’s ring around Astalor’s neck. (And he  _ knew _ she was laughing at him.) 

Maybe Halduron would be better. If he didn’t kill him first. 

(Both of which were terrible ideas.)

“Tell me about this war plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General reminder that Thas'alah is from Warcraft III, but the city of Morningstar is mine.
> 
> Yes, Rommath will have a nice talk with everybody. We are 4/5! Idk how to do Liadrin because... I kinda wrote myself into a corner with her with one comment I made in an earlier chapter. I suppose priest robes can be armor too though.
> 
> Also guys. Guess what. Let's play two truths and a lie. In a coming chapter, Rommath Doo and the Gang are going to:  
> 1\. Meet some people who are not elves  
> 2\. Go on a field trip  
> 3\. Meet some people I've mentioned in the present, but in the PAST


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kael wants a holiday. Astalor wants to go back to Dalaran. And Rommath...

Rommath did not like surprises. He more than disliked them; he abhorred them. From the time he had been a small child and his mother had refused to tell him if his new sibling had been a boy or a girl (nevermind that she  _ couldn’t _ have told him that) to this morning when Kael had bounded into his room and announced that they were going on  _ an adventure, _ surprises left a bitter, acrid taste on his tongue.

“You’ll like it,” Kael had insisted. 

“Doubtful.”

“I really think you will.” And it had been Astalor’’s vote of confidence which had surprised Rommath the most, almost as much as it had that Kael really had been able to keep the secret, all the way to the carefully managed portal room in the Violet Citadel, Captain Selin Fireheart trailing behind (and it must be far, for Kael to have roped Fireheart into it, Rommath thought, for Kael disliked calling  _ that _ sort of attention to himself). Fireheart rolled his eyes his eyes at it all, for he misliked this sort of childish secrecy as much as Rommath, and it spoke to the bond he had with Kael, and Kael’s fondness for him, that he be allowed such obstinacy before his lord. The captain spoke quietly to the portal master, and though Rommath strained his ears, he heard nothing.

Kael had been unable to keep secrets from his boyhood companions from the time they had met  － he had always been that way, his every want and need laid bare before them at all times. It frustrated Rommath that he could not read his friend’s eyes, could not tell from the devious twist of his lips his thoughts. 

“We’re going on holiday,” was all he had to go on.

When they got there, Rommath wasn’t sure if he should have expected it, and he was less sure if he was meant to be pleased.

A large, stately manor home awaited them. The country home of a noble, perhaps. Heavily guarded, with the arrival of the prince and his boon companions, Fireheart shouting orders before their feet had even touched the ground. Kael was  _ beaming, _ and all around them, the golden-orange leaves of Quel’Thalas were a welcome change from the stark green of Dalaran’s trees.

“We’re home?” Rommath looked around, startled. Kael swept him up in a strong, one-armed hug, and when he spoke, his breath was hot in Rommath’s ear. 

“Astalor’s country home!” his prince said grandly, sweeping his free arm around as though this place were his to share.

“My  _ family’s _ country home,” Astalor corrected gently. “One of them. This one is Aubade Hall.” And now that Rommath looked properly, had pushed aside his surprise, he saw the crest of House Bloodsworn upon the pennants flying from the towers, the red sun upon a golden shield.

( _ One of them. _ He sometimes forgot how  _ lowly _ his own family truly ranked compared to the likes of Astalor Bloodsworn. His father had one home, the home Rommath had been born in.)

“And Astalor has kindly allowed us the use of his home for our holiday!” 

“A weekend,” Astalor said sternly, and Kael scoffed. 

“He is  _ determined _ to ruin our fun, but I will not let him,” Kael whispered conspiratorially. “If our holiday drags a week or two, it will be all the better.” (As if Kael had no responsibilities to the Six nor to his colleagues. Rommath snorted.)

Astalor looked affronted. “I have  _ things _ to do in Dalaran!”

“I am your prince, and by the first syllable in your family name, I say you have things to do here.” If he were not being ridiculous, Rommath would say that just then, Kael looked nearly regal. 

“When my ancestor pledged his line to yours, I like to think he meant in battle or service,” Astalor argued. “Not debauching and drunken revelry.”

Kael laughed heartily. “Those are both services I will gladly accept.” 

And as much as Rommath loved his two closest friends, he very much agreed with Astalor, and he very much wanted to be in Dalaran. He had deadlines to meet, applications to submit, research to conduct. His studies had not stopped with his appointment as archmage. His studies would never stop. He had sworn at fifteen years old that he would learn everything there ever was to learn about magic, and he felt woefully behind.

His prince whirled on him, as if sensing his traitorous thoughts. “I have not told you the surprise, dear Rommath!”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Forcing ourselves on the hospitality of Astalor’s family was not it?”

But Kael was not listening. He was calling for hawkstriders, for Fireheart. His eyes glittered with mischief. He could not have been more pleased with himself and Rommath was not sure right now if there even  _ was _ a surprise, or if he was simply delighting in Rommath’s own misery. 

He did not have to wait long, and Kael did not even have to tell him. Twenty minutes down the road, Rommath saw them. Ships. Proper ships. Not the small, sad ferries of Quel’Danas but large galleys docked at a busy, thriving port. There was only one port in Quel’Thalas. 

Kael was grinning at him. 

* * *

Sunsail Anchorage was just as busy as his sister had said in her letters. It was noisy and crowded, full of foul-mouthed sailors of all races and giggling children and fishwives. Fireheart stayed glued to Kael, never straying further than a foot from his side, and Rommath was glad for their escort. It earned them many a stare － three noble men in fine clothing with a retinue of soldiers － and the farther they travelled into town, the more it seemed that people crowded, hoping for a glimpse of them. 

“I don’t like this, your highness,” Fireheart kept muttering. 

Rommath was in awe. (And also slightly terrified, if he were honest with himself.) Goblins shouted at each other over the price of wares. A small group of elven women sat chattering at a stall, a length of heavy fabric spread between them, sewing with hard needles and thick thread. Rommath was very aware of his coin purse, secured tightly to his belt. Somewhere a fight broke out, two men without shirts jumping a third, and a woman screamed.

And his sister had  _ volunteered _ to come to a place like this. 

“Cantrips and Crows is starting to look classy,” Astalor said uneasily. 

“Silvermoon can be just the same.” Kael, as always, was unfazed.

“On Murder Row, maybe,” Rommath groused. Kael let out a bark of a laugh.

“Why Rommath!” he gasped. “What would a gentleman like you know of Murder Row?”

Rommath rolled his eyes.

* * *

Fireheart wanted them to turn right around and go back to Aubade Hall and Kael would have none of it. He bade Fireheart find them “the best bar in town,” which hadn’t been difficult, as there were not many options. Sunsail Anchorage had one bar and one bar only, and it was into this building they all filed. Rommath was sure they would all be dead by sundown.

(And he had seen neither hide nor hair of his sister!)

The Painted Lady was surprisingly clean, with scrubbed wooden tables and floors. The tables were also bolted to the floors, and Rommath didn’t know how to feel about that. They were given ale in thick class tumblers, strong and heady, and though he disliked it less than the dwarven stout in Dalaran, he could not enjoy it. He itched to find the harbormaster’s office, where his sister had quarters, but Kael had other ideas. Or rather, fate had other ideas for Kael. 

A burst of laughter drew their attention, and Kael, ever curious and never knowing when to  _ stay put, _ wandered over to see just what was so funny.

“Kael’thas!” Fireheart hissed, close on his heels.

“He’s going to get himself killed,” Rommath muttered, eyeing the group warily. They were rangers, it seemed, bows and quivers slung over chairs and dumped haphazard on the floor. Knives glinted from their belts.

“I do hope he has the sense to do so far from us.” Astalor worried at his bottom lip.

“He won’t.” Rommath sipped at his ale. “He’ll be murdered and we’ll be blamed. A fine way to go, really.”

Astalor’s eyes widened.

“If we’re lucky, perhaps they’ll murder us as well.”

(Sometimes Rommath forgot that his dry wit was  _ too much _ for poor Astalor, and it was really his own fault if Astalor was rather annoyed at him for it.)

Kael had poked his nose in with the rangers, as he often did to large groups. He was loathe to think that the world didn’t revolve around him, that there could possibly be a discussion in which he was not a part, and Rommath did not even think it wholly obnoxious on his part but more a deep, desperate need to  _ know _ about the world, one from which he had been so fiercely sheltered. He saw his prince's ears perk and then his whole body straighten as it did when he'd caught on to a secret before everyone else.

“By the Sunwell － if it isn’t Lor!” The prince’s face splintered into a grin that lit up the entire tavern, mercifully empty save for Farstriders, and each one no matter how drunk scrambled from their chair (and one very nearly fell) to kneel.

“Prince Kael’thas!” and “Your Highness!” and one or two declarations of “Prince Highness!” had Kael beaming and Rommath rolling his eyes. (They were definitely going to be murdered.)

“Now, now, Lor, there has never been a need to kneel before me.” Kael’s eyes sparkled with delight as a large, burly ranger got to his feet. “I’d have never imagined to find you here!”

“Nor I you,” said the ranger. Despite the drink, his voice was clear and strong. He possessed robust shoulders and large hands, muscled calves and thighs, his long cornsilk hair pulled into a high tail, and were it not for his mouth, Rommath thought he might be almost handsome. It was a wide mouth, not quite straight along his face, nearly at odds with his strong jaw. But from it was unleashed a laugh not unlike Kael’s, a little too loud, a little intoxicated, and it settled into an easy smile. 

(Rommath furiously turned back to his ale.)

So this was dear cousin Lor. 

“Captain Fireheart!” he heard, followed by the clattering of plate hitting plate. They must have saluted one another.

“Captain Theron,” came Fireheart’s reply, a little less uneasy. There was a pause, and the clearing of a throat. 

“Ah. Halduron, do take over,” said Theron. “I will escort the prince and his companions home.” There was the muffled sound of many feet as the rangers stood. Another voice answered, “Sure thing, Captain.”

_ Home?! _

“Oh!” That was Kael. “ My companion is looking for his sister." Rommath imagined the grin enveloping his prince’s face once more. “I’ve brought him here to find her.”

“Was she lost?” Theron was serious, his tone concerned. Rommath turned around. 

“She is a priestess,” he told the ranger. “Assigned to this town as a journeyman. I should like to visit her.”

One of the rangers stepped forward, a woman with golden hair and piercing blue eyes. “I would escort you, sir. She’s tending to some of our own now.”

“She’s fantastic,” said another, his hair held back by a blue headband. Rommath felt a swell of pride. 

“Unfortunate she couldn’t give you a brain,” the woman said coolly. The second ranger frowned.

“I see she couldn’t fix your horrendous－”

“ _ Thank you, Ranger Velonara,” _ Theron said quickly. “Please, be discreet.”

The female ranger nodded. “As always, sir.” She glared at the other ranger, the one who’d been cut off, before slinging her bow and quiver over her shoulder. 

( _ Rangers, _ Rommath thought with disgust.  _ Can’t even keep their arguments out of polite company.) _

* * *

The harbormaster’s office was a small, nondescript building close to the docks, but far enough that the smell of fish did not completely saturate the air. It had the single honor of being the only building with a name plate, a strip of bronze hammered into the thick wooden door. It may have been a nice piece of work once, but time and the sea air had worn the lettering down, the metal a dull grey. A spiraling ramp along the side of the building led to what Rommath assumed was his sister’s quarters, and perhaps another apartment for the harbormaster. 

The door with its plaque was propped open and Ranger Velonara walked right inside without even a knock.  _ Rangers. _

Inside had been partitioned. To the right sat a large desk and a few cabinets, made of a kind of thick grey wood Rommath had seen growing near Goldenmist when he’d been to visit his aunt as a child. To the right was a wall, its door the remains of an old, clean sail to keep out the draft. Along the wall lay crates of foodstuffs, blankets, scraps of clothing － his sister had mentioned an abundance of kindness from the villagers.

“Hey Aldaron,” said the ranger. “Sister here?”

The harbormaster － a brawny man with hair pulled in a tight braid, like a night elf － nodded without looking up from his desk. He jerked his thumb towards the partition. “Same as always.”

(Rommath knew that common people lacked the graces that he himself had grown up with, but the sheer familiarity of the exchange between the harbormaster and the ranger made his skin crawl. He eyed Astalor, hoping to find common ground, but Astalor was following Ranger Velonara, whatever unease he felt well hidden. Leaving their escort of soldiers at the door, Rommath squared his shoulders and trailed reluctantly behind.)

Behind the partition was a makeshift sick room. A handful rangers sat on cots or on the floor and they looked up at their colleague’s entrance.

“Vel,” said one, with long dark hair and an oval face. She sported bandages around one arm. “You missed the fight.”

“Isn’t that what got you here?” Ranger Velonara drawled. She fussed over the bandages, and Rommath suppressed a twinge of irritation.

“Not me,” her friend huffed. “Two sailors.” She pointed across the room where two men lay unconscious.

“If you’ve been seen, you may  _ leave now,” _ came a sharp voice, one Rommath knew very well, and from behind a pile of crates a head of black hair peeked. “I believe that includes you, Ranger Lenara.”

“I only wanted Velonara to collect me,” Lenara protested. 

“She wanted to be a pain in my ass,” Velonara droned, but she was smiling. She offered a hand and pulled her friend up. 

“There are too many of you,” said the priestess firmly. “Next time don’t get involved with murlocs.”

“The murlocs got involved with us,” several rangers complained. Rommath’s sister emerged with a small pack and handed it to the closest ranger. 

“If those wounds get infected, apply this paste and cover with silverleaf,” she instructed. 

“Thank you, Sister,” said the ranger. 

“Out,” Velonara barked. “Before power goes to Brightwing’s head and he finds another reason to crawl up my ass.”

(Rommath’s ears bled at such language coming from a woman. Astalor’s face was scarlet. His sister, surprisingly, was not blushing at all.)

“Brightwing?” Lenara gathered her weapons. “Where’s Lor’themar?”

“ _ Entertaining,” _ Velonara grumbled, rolling her eyes. “Brightwing’s in charge until he comes back. I feel a migraine coming on.” Another ranger patted her back sympathetically. 

Rommath and Astalor shuffled aside so that the four rangers could stomp out, and his sister said, without having looked at them, “Are you bleeding or broken?”

“Pardon?” Astalor’s eyebrows shot up.

“Homesick,” Rommath said softly. His sister stopped fiddling along her makeshift counter. She turned her head, and in a most unladylike fashion she  _ flew _ across the room and was in his arms, heedless of Astalor beside him. Her hair had been pulled back in an untidy bun and her robes were wrinkled and dirty besides, and Rommath hugged her close, the smell of silverleaf and antiseptic and  _ home _ filling his nostrils. In his mind for the past five hundred years his sister had been a child still and yet here she was, a woman grown and nearly as tall as he. 

His sister was laughing, perhaps to stop herself crying, and when she broke their embrace she did so gently, a hand on his chest. It was still small and slender like he remembered, but no longer dainty and manicured. This was a hand that had seen work, the skin having that peculiar feel of skin that should be scarred and tough but was not.

“What are you doing here?” she breathed, her eyes wide and disbelieving. Even her voice was different, not so high pitched as it had been as a child. 

“I have been kidnapped,” he said, his face straight as a board. “Here, meet one of the dastardly villains, Lord Astalor Bloodsworn” And Auriel turned to Astalor for the first time, saw him for the first time.

“My father would pay a tidy sum for my brother’s safe return,” she told Astalor. “But I would pay you more, for it’s been five  _ hundred years, _ and only now does he deign to see me.”

Astalor laughed. “To be fair,” he said, ever the diplomat, “Rommath makes time for no one.”

“But I am his sister!” Auriel insisted. She turned back to Rommath and the look in her eye was fierce. “You shall always make time for me.” Rommath smiled.

“I shall always make time for you,” he promised. “I will not go five hundred years before I see you again.” And he pulled her close once more, at once overwhelmed with homesickness and sadness at all that he had missed while he had been away in Dalaran. 

“Stop, stop,” his sister giggled, “you’ll get salve on your robes.”

“I don’t care.” His voice was soft, whispered into her hair.

“I’ve tended to at least a dozen sweating, stinking men and bloodied Farstriders today,” Auriel warned.

“I don’t care,” he repeated. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine he was home in Tranquillien, that they were still children, that their brothers were off getting into the sun only knew what and the cook was preparing something delectable and local for lunch and their mother would walk in and smile at her two oldest, so pleased that they were friends as she and her own sister had not been until well into adulthood.

“Rommath!” Auriel tried to pull away, but she did not try hard and she was laughing besides. “I need to  _ change!” _

“I don’t care.” Magic was everything to him. Learning to harness and control the powers that rose so easily from within him, to pull at and form those which didn’t, they breathed life into him. They had stoked in him a fire that had never ceased burning from the very moment the first spark came to his fingertips, in a way that his family never had. But standing there, in the tiny makeshift sick room of the harbormaster’s office, seeing his sister for the first time in five hundred years, Rommath knew that eventually he would have to leave Dalaran. It was more than grumbling over the missed luxuries of Quel’Thalas － the bitter teas and coffees, the way Dalaranians used sugar as if it sustained them; the casual racism and bias towards humans and the absurd notion of seasons and  _ snow. _ He would have to return to Quel’Thalas to satisfy the deep ache in his chest, the one that had taken residence the day he had left. He missed not just Quel’Thalas but his  _ family, _ and letters alone had not been enough to sustain him. 

* * *

Astalor returned to Aubade Hall, but Rommath stayed. His sister would not leave with patients under her roof, and Rommath was loathe to leave her now that he had found her. Sunsail Anchorage and his sister had been the surprise, after all － he was sure Kael, catching up with dear cousin Lor, could not begrudge him this.

Oh, but Auriel had changed in the time he had been away. A shy, sweet little girl, she had grown. He caught a glimpse of that little girl, as she bade Aldaron “take a walk” while she and Rommath lunched in the office, and with a sigh, the harbormaster had leaned back and stretched, complaining.

“If you need me, I went home for a nap,” he had told her, slamming shut a ledger. “If anyone else needs me, tell them I died.” 

Lunch was a thoroughly rustic affair. Brown bread and a selection of meats and cheeses and fruits Rommath was sure were just odds and ends from various ships, and they all carried a faint taste of salty sea air. It was  _ good, _ but then again, he thought anything would taste good right now. 

“How are Mother and Father?” he asked greedily. “Sorrem and Merhean?”

“I see Father often,” Auriel told him. “Whenever he has business in the city, he is sure to take a dragonhawk here.” She laughed at his disbelief. “I don’t believe he  _ approves, _ but he has asked the High Priest how they maintain the safety of their clerics and made several donations to the Chapel.” She paused to sip at her glass (and it was filled with kaldorei ginger wine － his sister now drank wine!). “I do believe he also threatened Aldaron, should anything happen to me.”

“I should think the overseer of international trade ranks just a touch higher than Father,” Rommath put forth. Their father was merely a governor. 

Auriel grinned. “I should think Father did not threaten him politically.” And the image of their stately father taking up arms at his age against a glorified sailor (who looked like  _ that!) _ to defend his daughter’s honor made them both laugh hard enough that neither could speak for a good while. 

“Merhean wants to join the Farstriders,” she told him, chewing a bite of bread. “Father said no.”

Rommath wrinkled his nose. “As he should. We do not need to lower ourselves to frolicking about the forests.” 

His sister frowned. “The Farstriders do much more than that, Rommath. They keep order. They are our first line of defense against the Amani. You know that as well as I do.”

“We are a military family,” Rommath said firmly. “Distinguished and lauded in plate and combat. The Farstriders camp and pretend they are useful.”

(He did not add that his only real encounters with Farstriders had been their father’s tirades against them and just this afternoon, with dear cousin Lor. He did not add that he thought the Farstriders spent too much of their budget  _ looking good _ . Mail and leather should not hug a body so, should not cling to one’s backside－

Savagely, he tore into his food, refusing to finish that thought.)

“You sound like Father,” Auriel lamented. “And neither you nor I are  _ military.” _

She had a point.

Pushing aside thoughts of… things that  _ would not _ be addressed, Rommath said, “All the more reason for Merhean to become a warrior. He and Sorrem both. We must carry on our family’s legacy.”

“Sorrem will make for a fine member of the Convocation someday,” his sister told him. “He argues beautifully, and he is bright and refined.”

“Sorrem? Really?” In Rommath’s mind, Sorrem was still a small child, blue paint splashed across his face and staining his clothes as he screamed in the dark.

“Truly. Father is looking for a tutor already.” She beamed at him, and Rommath couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. No one had thought to mention such in any letters?

“Aldaron!” There was a great thumping and some scuffling from outside. “Aldaron, I’ve got another!” A sailor, his eyes hard, stormed in, his hand gripping the arm of a frightened boy. The sailor was missing several notches from his ear and his eyes were narrowed. “Oh for fuck’s－ Where’s Aldaron?”

Rommath jumped, startled. Where were his guards? Did they expect him to fend for himself? Auriel, however, was unfazed.

“He went out,” she said serenely. “Is something the matter?” 

The sailor threw the boy to the floor. “ _ This one’s _ been stealing again,” he spat. “I caught him going through the cargo. I won’t have a thief on my ship, Sister! I’d sooner employ goblins!”

The boy on the floor looked very young, though his hair was long and unkempt. He had been beaten and his eyes were black. Rommath’s stomach turned.

“I don’t handle thefts, Captain Firehawk. You’ll have to come back when Aldaron is here.” The sailor looked furious but Auriel was not cowed. She held his gaze. “I will keep the boy until then.”

The sailor was easily twice his sister’s size and could have pitched her across the room. “I’m not having him on my ship,” he repeated. 

“That’s something you’ll have to discuss with Aldaron,” Auriel said calmly. She looked like a proper lady just then, her gaze commanding, her voice brokering no argument, and it was truly a shame that the Light had claimed her before she’d even been born. Rommath thought, from just this small exchange, that she would have done well on the Convocation. Perhaps she could have even tamed Kael.

The sailor stormed out, his lip curling, and the boy on the floor shuddered. Auriel slid to the floor, her face at once kind, and made a sympathetic noise of worry.

“Thaedris,” she said softly. “May I see?” She was not brusque as she had been with the rangers. She did not snap, did not order. She sounded once more like the sister who had minded their younger brothers, and the beaten boy hesitated before nodding.

Rommath watched as Auriel’s hands tenderly brushed against the boy’s blackened eyes. He winced as she touched the bridge of his nose, a strangled cry escaping his lips as her hands began to glow. She ran her fingers lightly along his jaw, seemingly knowing where his injuries were without a single word from him, and Rommath was wary. 

“I’ve told you,” his sister said gently, “if you are hungry, there is always food here. Do not be afraid of Aldaron.” She grinned at the boy. “He looks scary, but he is a good man. He will not let you starve.” 

She helped her charge stand and took in his grimace. “Go on then,” she said, nodding towards the partition. “I will bring you bread if you allow me to see to your injuries.” 

Thaedris pursed his lips together. He was unsteady on his feet, one hand pressed to his ribs. Perhaps they were broken. He turned slowly, and carefully limped his way past the sail that served as a door. There was a groan as he, presumably, divested himself of his tunic.

Rommath was flabbergasted. It was not something he felt often. 

His sister busied herself with the supplies along the wall. A loaf of bread. A bit of fish. A piece of dwarven cheese. Rommath shifted uncomfortably in his seat. This was not how he would have handled this boy.

“Auriel.”

His sister was not listening, not really. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I have my responsibilities.” And she ducked behind the sail. There was sharp intake of breath. 

“That looks like it hurts,” came Auriel’s voice. And, “Slow down. I can’t examine you if you eat like that.” 

Rommath didn’t understand why his sister was feeding a thief. In Dalaran, thieves were sent to the dungeons. They were not fed. They were not healed. He knew she couldn’t not heal the boy, her vows as a priest preventing her from such. But he didn’t think a full belly counted as healing. He picked at his own lunch, listening quietly. 

The boy never spoke. Every word belonged to Auriel. She was gentle and soft, and where there was a hiss of pain or a strangled cry, she was soothing and shushing, apologizing. Rommath remembered his sister telling him she had asked the harbormaster for that partition, for the patients and their privacy, to prevent disturbing him in his work; but he couldn’t help but wish it was not there. It unnerved him that his sister was out of sight with a boy, and he suspected if he barged in, she would push him out. 

She was drawn when she emerged, her eyes hiding worry. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “Sailors, you know.”

“Mm.” He didn’t.

She sat down. “What were we discussing?”

“Why would you feed him?” Rommath had always been one to speak his mind, and despite all the changes his sister had seen in him, that was something she remembered. Her shoulders drooped.

“It’s hard being a sailor, Rommath,” she said softly.

“Then perhaps he ought find a different occupation. I don’t think rewarding thieves teaches them anything.”

“I didn’t reward him.” His sister’s voice was calm and even. “I reminded him that things are different. That I have made changes in the time that I have been here.”

“What if he takes that entire crate then?”

Auriel folded her hands neatly on her lap. “Then Light willing, he truly needed the food in it.” There was a pause, a heavy moment of silence between them. Rommath was not sure if his sister was a fool or…

“Do you fancy him?” he demanded. “He looks half your age.”

And Auriel laughed, softly so as not to alert the charges behind the partition. “I do not,” she reassured him. “You know my only love is the Light.”

Rommath frowned, unconvinced. His sister reached over and took his hand.

“I have told you how Mother and Father have shielded us,” she explained. “I believe that, had I not been blessed by the Light, I could have gone on to live a happy, ignorant life as the wife of a lord. But Rommath. You have been all over Quel’Thalas. Surely you have  _ seen _ that not all of us are as fortunate as we. Not all of the Light’s children have been so lucky.”

Rommath knew that. Had felt the difference earlier when Astalor had spoken of his family’s multiple estates. Had seen when he’d gone to Cantrips and Crows, the looks on travelers’ faces as they counted out  _ just enough _ copper for a single drink. Had been teased his first weeks at the Magisterium, for his southern accent － that a boy from the southlands had been lucky enough to be noticed and brought north at all. And somehow, he didn’t think he knew  _ quite _ what his sister spoke of.

“The things I have  _ seen, _ the things I have  _ heard, _ dear brother.” Auriel closed her eyes as if pained. “Sometimes I feel as though I’m a character in a book. People surely don’t treat people so horribly, do they?” Her gaze drifted to the partition, then back to him.

“Sailors are terrible,” she said grimly. “And Farstriders, and blacksmiths, and merchants. All of us, terrible.” Her grip on Rommath’s hand was hard. “I cry myself to sleep sometimes.”

“Then why do you not leave?” Rommath asked, and Auriel looked at him as though he’d suddenly grown a second head.

“Because I vowed,” she swore. “Wherever I find illness and corruption, I vowed to stamp it out. Because no one deserves to go hungry and hurt and afraid, Rommath.” His sister’s eyes were fire. They seared into his very soul. “I won’t pretend to understand the world,” she admitted. “I am very young, and my peers are often much wiser than I. But brother… How can one walk past a sobbing boy and sneer in disgust, how can they cry for punishment, when his only crime was hunger? They beat him and degrade him but he is still  _ hungry, _ and the cycle goes on and on.” Auriel looked as though she may cry, and Rommath placed his free hand atop hers, his thumb ensnaring hers gently. She took several deep breaths through her nose, attempting to resume the calm air she’d had.

“At least if he were in prison － in the city － he would have been fed.” Her eyebrows knit together. “I may be naïve, but I am not so that I do not understand that it was only by my position that Aldaron listened to me. He found me crying after I had tended the poor boy yet again. He put Thaedris to work to earn his food, on the condition that he did not steal.” She bit her lip. “I have tried to impress upon him － upon all the ill-fortuned － that my door is always open should they have need.”

“People are proud, Auriel,” Rommath said gently. “They would rather struggle than accept help－”

“Oh, I do know that!” his sister moaned. “The amount of people I’ve had to force to let me look at them. Festering wounds, infection, bone sticking out, and yet always they insist  _ Oh no, Sister, don’t trouble yourself. We Sunsailers are hardy stock! _ ” She threw her hands up and made a noise of disgust.

He shouldn’t laugh, and he knew he shouldn't, but he couldn’t help himself. He and his sister shared the same blood, and he’d always known the fury was in there somewhere. She glared at him.

“People are  _ stupid,” _ he told her. “They never know what’s best for them even when it’s lit up like Midsummer before their eyes.” His sister hmphed. 

“I just want to  _ help _ people, Rommath.” She looked tired again, as though the span of the conversation had taken many years for which she had slept through none. “That’s all I have ever wanted to do.”

“You are,” he told her. “That boy in there would be crying in the streets or dead if you had not come here.”

“Many people would be crying in the streets or dead if I had not come,” she said quietly. “It’s hard to remember sometimes.”

He rested his chin on his hand. “Well, if you weren’t so insistent on being  _ humble, _ perhaps it would be easier.”

She frowned. “Were I not humble, my ego would swell as large as yours,” she retorted. The fire had returned, burning gently behind her eyes. He laughed.

“I must introduce you to Kael. He makes me look positively saintly.” 

Auriel grinned. “Impossible.”

“It’s true!”

“I shall have to see for myself,” Auriel declared. 

He toyed with his wineglass. “You shall have to purify him in Light and holy fire,” he warned.

“I shall bring my candles and books,” she teased.

“I shall bring the fire.”

They embraced tightly before he departed for the night, with his retinue of guards, and Rommath marveled at how an entire afternoon had passed so quickly. Secretly he hoped to stay longer than the weekend. Wanted to spend a few days with his sister, whom he missed so dearly. Perhaps, before returning to Dalaran, he would spend a few days in Tranquillien and see his family. More than his sister, he missed his mother. He missed her hugs. He missed his brothers and wanted to see for himself the young men they had become. He even missed his father and his harsh, angry voice, hidden behind the thick doors of his study.

“Be safe,” Auriel whispered in his ear.

“And you, dear sister.”

He took his hawkstrider’s reins from his guard and mounted, and with one last, final look, he turned the beast and clicked his tongue and he was going back. Back to Aubade Hall and Astalor, no doubt at his wit’s end stuck for hours with Kael and dear cousin Lor. Back to the only person who could ease the heartache of homesickness with the heartache of himself. As always, he went back to Kael. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need you all to know that every time I type "boyhood," I always type "boyfriend" first and have to retype it.
> 
> I also need you all to know that while I was writing this, my cat Luna was VERY insistent on sitting right next to the computer and staring as I typed, and as I edited it, my other cat Apollo threw himself on my feet and snored through the entire thing. So that's where I'm at today.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rommath walks right into some unwelcome news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the mistakes. I just.. I can't go back and edit. I have PTSD from this chapter. I nearly threw the entire laptop. 
> 
> Sometimes you tell your characters, "Okay, I want to do xyz today," and your characters say, "cool okay," and then refuse to be anything more than dead weight as you write. Then completely unrelated characters burst in and go "HEY BITCHES I GOT A BONE TO PICK WITH YOU" and you throw up your hands in frustration and let them do whatever.

Kael had been put out when Rommath informed him and Astalor of his desire to visit Tranquillien. 

“This was supposed to be a holiday!” he had whined. 

“It still is a holiday.”

“Not if you leave us,” his prince had complained.

“I think it a good idea,” Astalor quipped. “I feel I should fulfill my filial duties as well and visit my father.”

It was decided (with much grumbling on Kael’s part) to extend their holiday together another day, after which they would go their separate ways before returning to Dalaran. As Rommath left his guard outside his family’s gate, he almost found himself wishing Kael was with him. His family home seemed strange and foreign to him after having been gone so long, and he longed for the comfort his prince’s presence provided.

His mother had been overjoyed. “Rommath, oh!” Unheeding of the book in her lap, she shot up and crossed the sitting room in three steps to fold her oldest son into her arms. “What a surprise!” she exclaimed, her embrace warm, the hand on his back soft and gentle.

“Hello, Mother,” he said quietly, hugging her back. She still wore her high collars, her hair still in the same style, and after the shock that had been Auriel, the sameness of his mother relaxed him. She still wore the same perfume and he breathed in deeply, not realizing until this moment how he had missed it.

“Oh! Let me look at you!” Reluctantly he let her go and she held him at arm’s length, her gaze sweeping approvingly from his well-tailored robes to his sharp cheekbones. She cupped his cheek, and her hand moved behind his ear to grasp a strand of inky black hair. “Your hair is so long now…” There were tears in her eyes.

“Is it longer than Father’s?” he asked. He had promised her, so long ago, that it would be, and she let out a choked laugh.

“I do believe so,” she murmured. She held him again, and he was taller than her now, her head coming up only to his chin. “And an  _ archmage! _ Oh Rommath, I am so proud of you.”

Rommath’s heart swelled and he feared, if he did not work to control himself, he would also begin to cry. His mother was too good to him. Auriel had scolded him, and he’d deserved it, for not visiting. For spending the past five centuries as words on parchment. Yet his mother, his sweet mother, was simply  _ proud _ of him. He did not deserve her.

“Let us sit,” he said gently, guiding her back to her chair, “and I shall tell you about Dalaran.” 

* * *

His brothers too were a surprise, and Rommath found with a shock that he no longer recognized them. Both had grown into tall, wellbuilt men, no baby fat left to their faces, and with his curls tamed into a high tail, Sorrem was a different person entirely.

“Brother!” And Sorrem’s voice was  _ deep _ now, not the high pitched whine of a child, as he embraced Rommath and clapped him on the back. “It has been too long!”

“Where has my baby brother gone?” Rommath teased. The only trace of the Sorrem he knew lay on his hands, splashed with ink from studying. Sorrem had always managed to stain something, Rommath remembered fondly. 

“He’s grown up,” Sorrem declared, “and quite handsomely, if I do say so myself.”

“I see Auriel and I never should have left.” Rommath’s mouth twisted with amusement. “Without us you’ve grown conceited.” 

“Without  _ us, _ you’ve grown quite haughty,” Sorrem taunted. “I’ve nearly forgotten I have another brother. Too good for us now?” 

(The words stung, and though he knew his brother spoke in jest, he felt shamed.)

“I suppose I would become the same, lounging in the luxury of the prince’s favor,” Sorrem conceded. “I’m sure you’ve grown accustomed to much more finery and pomp than our simple manor.”

His brother was taller than him now, Rommath realized with a start, his eyes looking down ever so slightly to meet Rommath’s own. 

“Only in my studies,” he said. “I assure you, I live quite modestly.”

“Do you?” The arch of Sorrem’s eyebrows suggested he did not think an apartment in Dalaran paid for by the crown was modest, and Rommath chuckled.

“I do not live as lavishly as you’d think,” he corrected. “Dalaran is not that sort of city.”

“No.” Sorrem’s brow furrowed. “But it is impressive enough to keep you from your family, your country, for so long.” 

He sensed something in his youngest brother, something deep seated and raw. Rommath did not have the chance to ask, however, because at that moment the door flew open and in burst an elf in chainmail, his face red and eyes wide.

“It’s true!” the elf shouted, and his face split into a wide grin. “It’s true!” Rommath barely had time to blink before he was enveloped in a hug so tight it was painful, chainmail pressing uncomfortably through the thin fabric of his robes, and he received his second (or was it third?) shock of the day at recognizing that this － this  _ very tall, _ very  _ broad _ man was his brother Merhean. In his mind’s eye, Merhean still hardly reached this chest, but this man was of an eye level with him, his chin sporting dark stubble. His hands were large and thick, the fingertips calloused, and when he looked at Rommath, just like their mother, he too had tears in his eyes.

The Merhean he remembered spoke very little and very quietly. The Merhean before him was loud, excited. 

“Mother said － I didn’t believe － but you’re  _ here, _ aren’t you?” Merhean gripped him tightly by the shoulders and shook him a little.

“You’re going to injure him,” Sorrem quipped.

“This can’t be Merhean,” Rommath said. “My brother is small and silent. What have you done with him?” And Merhean laughed.

“And my brother is sharp and humble,” he pointed out. “Who are  _ you, _ to come in here with your fine mageweave and silks and doubt the word of  _ your _ brother?”

The man before him bore no resemblance to Merhean at all. His jaw was large and square like their father’s － the only one of them to resemble their father so closely. Rommath, Auriel, Sorrem, they were all their mother’s children, lithe and delicate and sharp, but Merhean had grown to be broad of frame and thick of muscle, and the face that beamed back at him held none of their mother’s fine features.

“Dalaran,” Sorrem put forth by way of explanation.

“Dalaran,” Merhean agreed, nodding over Rommath’s shoulder. “How long are you staying?”

Rommath managed to untangle himself from his brother’s embrace. “A night or two at most,” he said apologetically. He did not say that this visit had not been planned at all, had merely been tacked on to a holiday with his prince. “I’m afraid I have much to do at home.” And he did not miss the look in Sorrem’s eyes when he said  _ home, _ though his youngest brother said nothing.

“Perhaps for the best,” Merhean said quickly. “Father is leaving on the morrow for the city. It is good you came before he left!”

“Where is Father?” 

“The Sanctum of the Moon,” Merhean replied. “He should be back before long.”

They sat and caught up, and it was strange, listening to them. To their deep voices and conversation. Merhean, as Auriel had said, was a military man, though he did not want to be. Sorrem was studying for his court exams, a series of rigorous tests by the Convocation to weed the unworthy from the pool of potential government officials. His aim was a seat on the Convocation itself. 

“I wish you luck,” Rommath told him in earnest. “If they are half as difficult as my archmage exams, I do feel badly for you.”

“My practice exams are difficult,” Sorrem admitted. “But at least my results are my work and mine alone. Not all of us have been graced like you and Auriel.”

Merhean frowned. “Don’t be like that,” he chided. “You yourself have been blessed with wit and intelligence, and that is no worse than magic or the Light.”

Ah. Rommath understood. His youngest brother harbored some silly jealousy that he was not kissed by fire as Rommath was, nor chosen as Auriel. He supposed he couldn’t blame Sorrem, not really, when his choices in life were the military or the government. Rommath thought he would like neither, himself. 

“Not so much intelligence as Rommath,” Sorrem reminded him. This seemed to be an argument they’d had often. 

“Sorrem has grown up thinking himself to be stupid,” Merhean explained. “He cannot fathom any other reason why he can barely power a magelight.” Their brother glowered.

“Do not put words in my mouth,” he muttered.

“Mother can’t do magic,” Rommath supplied. “Not even a magelight. And I don’t believe Mother to be stupid.” It had been so long but the stern look he gave Sorrem was no different than the ones he’d been given as a child. “We have each been given different gifts,” he said evenly. “No one of us four is better than the other.” 

“Except you and Auriel,” Sorrem pointed out. “Your fancy educations, Quel’Danas, Dalaran. Auriel, the favorite of the High Priest because of you and you, favorite of the prince and the king. Your good fortune did not extend to myself nor Merhean.” 

Rommath frowned. “I was not aware that my talent had driven a wedge between us,” he said carefully. “Was it not so long ago that you delighted in my ability to bring flame to the fairy lights in the garden?”

Merhean sighed. “You left,” he said. “We didn’t.” He shrugged. “It makes no difference now. Though I would rather have joined the Farstriders, I am content with my lot in life. It is only Sorrem who lingers for what he does not have.”

“You’ve never told me this.” Rommath looked at their youngest brother.

Sorrem shrugged. “You have not visited in five hundred years,” he said. “I did not think you would care to hear.”

And  _ that _ hurt, and Rommath felt his cheeks flame. He felt as though he were speaking to Aethas again, felt Sorrem would yell at any moment. But he didn’t. Sorrem sat there, his face carefully blank, and said not a word.

“I have been busy,” Rommath said slowly. “Magic is more than the waving of fingers. And I have been scolded enough by our sister.”

“Our sister has cause to stay away,” Sorrem said. “She is not allowed to leave Sunsail. But I doubt you have such restrictions, and it is only natural to draw the conclusion that you do not want to see us, brother. Any of us.”

“That is a falsehood.” Rommath breathed in deeply through his nose. “I have been a bad brother,” he admitted. “A bad son. I do not write as often as I should and I often let myself get caught up in my day to day life and my activities with Kael. But I do apologize, and will continue to apologize, and swear to you that I will not leave you for so long again.”

Merhean nodded, reached over to clap a hand to Rommath’s shoulder. “I accept your apology,” he said with a smile. “We are blood, and though time may pass, we will always be blood. I will, however, admonish you for not writing more.” His smile descended into a grin that altogether looked unnatural on a face so resembling their father’s. Rommath laughed.

“Thank you.”

Sorrem’s face had not changed. He pursed his lips, sitting stiffly in his chair as he mulled over Rommath’s words. Finally he nodded. 

“I am afraid I’ve grown into a man short of temper,” his brother admitted. “I am jealous. But I suppose I could have written more and forced your hand.” 

(Rommath would have been lying if he said he wasn’t taken aback by such an easy admission. Five hundred years of Kael, fighting tooth and nail to get the man to admit when he had done wrong, would do that to a person, he supposed.)

“Water under the bridge,” Merhean said, giving Sorrem a meaningful look. Their youngest brother nodded.

“Water under the bridge,” Rommath repeated. He made note to write his brothers more often, and visit as well. His mother may have been too kind, and Merhean, but neither Sorrem nor Auriel would soon let him forget his leaving them behind. 

* * *

Dinner was a quiet affair. Their father returned from the Sanctum of the Moon late and took his meal in his study, and so it was only Rommath and his mother and brothers. The cook made his favorite glazed dragonhawk with sweet candied bloodberries, and his brothers took turns enlightening him on the goings on of the town while Rommath regaled them with stories of his days in Dalaran. 

(He was careful to leave out tellings of wrangling Kael, though they were certainly the sorts of things his brothers would have liked to hear. He did not think his mother would appreciate that sometimes his “fancy education” equated to being no more than a glorified babysitter.)

They were still at the table, plates having long been cleared away, when the housekeeper poked her head in. “Master Rommath,” she said, loudly to be heard over the din (and it was a relief to know that at least  _ someone _ was still the same; his housekeeper was still the assertive, no nonsense woman he’d grown up with). “I’ve been asked to fetch you to your father’s study.”

For a moment his heart seized and he was a child again, those dreaded words ringing in his ears. No one ever went into Father’s study. But Merhean and Sorrem looked nonplussed and his mother gave a dainty little huff as if to say,  _ Of course your father wants to see you, we all do. _

“Go on, dear,” she urged him. “We’ll speak more before you retire.” 

So Rommath excused himself and traipsed up the familiar staircase, his heart hammering.  _ This is stupid, _ he told himself.  _ I am a man grown and my father only wishes me to pay my respects in his home. _ He turned the knob to the study door (he couldn’t in living memory ever recall it having not been shut tight) and let himself in.

His father had changed as well. His long, dark hair had started silvering near the temples, and his neatly trimmed beard bore streaks of grey. New lines lay around his mouth － frown lines, Rommath was sure － but his eyes were still the hardened blue steel he remembered from his childhood. 

“Father.” He bowed his head. 

“Rommath.” His father’s voice was deep and sullen, and Rommath remembered an old mantra he’d often repeated as a child.  _ Father always sounds angry even when he is not. _

There was no place to sit in the study aside from his father’s occupied chair, and Rommath stood, feeling just as awkward as he had the last time he’d been called in this room, when his father and Magister Kaendris had told him he was going to Silvermoon to study magic. Grown though he was, he was still his father’s child, and his father had always somewhat intimidated him.

“Good of you to visit,” his father said gruffly. “Perhaps the next time will not take so long.”

“No,” Rommath agreed. “My apologies, Father.”

“I trust your studies have been keeping you busy.” It was not a question, but Rommath found himself nodding anyway. His father’s eyes bore into him. When he was younger, Rommath imagined his father could see every thought in his mind. 

“You’ve passed your archmage exams,” his father said. “And on the second try. That’s very impressive, I’ve been told.”

(The reminder that he’d failed the first made his ears burn.)

“Thank you, Father.”

His father frowned. The remains of his supper lay cold to one of his great desk, glaze shiny on the plate. Rommath shifted his weight to his other foot.

“How far are you planning on taking this, Rommath?” his father asked. “From your letters, it seems as though you’ve reached the pinnacle of success in Dalaran.”

“Father?”

His father’s hands, folded on his desk, slid against each other, fingertips barely touching, steepling in silence. 

“I believe it’s time you returned home.”

Rommath felt the air knocked out of him. Home? To Quel’Thalas? To Tranquillien?

“I’m sure the Grand Magister would accept you into the ranks of the Sanctum,” his father continued. “Your talent is what brought you to the Royal Academy in the first place, and five centuries spent at the side of our prince has earned you much favor. I believe the transition shall be an easy one.”

His father was not asking. 

“I-I… I have important work,” Rommath stuttered, “in Dalaran－”

He was cut off. “Which can be finished here. With our magisters.” His father brought his steepled hands to his lips and studied his son a moment before speaking again. “I’ve been lenient with you. I won’t pretend to understand the sort of advanced magic you study, or the time it takes to become as proficient as you say, but I do believe I’ve given you more than enough free reign. Merhean is courting the daughter of a well to do vintner, and you would do well and better to wed before he does.” 

Rommath’s head spun. He had always known he would have this discussion, but nothing could have prepared him… His father wanted him home. Wanted him to marry. To carry on their family name. 

He could not have known how Rommath felt about that. How the thought of an arranged marriage made his skin crawl. How the thought of returning home before he was ready kept him up at night, pouring over thick tomes and scribbling out new spells, trying to commit to memory as much of the library of Dalaran as he could before he was pulled away. His father could not know how the thought of anyone in his bed… for the rest of his life… 

(The only person Rommath had ever desired, seriously desired, he would not be permitted to court. Did not even feel that way for him. The sudden thoughts of  _ marriage _ and  _ Kael _ flashed in his mind and he stomped them down quickly as though his father could see.)

His father was speaking to him. He struggled to pay attention.

“－mockery of me. No one questions my daughter, devoted to the Chapel and the Light, but you, son. It is very strange that at your age you are not married.” The frown deepened, a chasm in his father’s face. “I will not have rumors spread in court and hurt my reputation or cause trouble for your brother during his exams.”

His father was hardly part of court life!, Rommath wanted to scream. But Rommath was. Rommath was, because of Kael, and that had pulled his entire family into spotlight. Sorrem had likely only been allowed the chance to take the exams because of Rommath.

His mouth was dry. He forced himself to swallow, and it was mostly air. 

“I understand, Father.” 

He could get out of this, he thought. But it would come up again. It would not stop until his own wedding. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have come here.

* * *

Rommath slept badly. Even coffee － bitter, beautiful Tranquillien coffee － could not brighten his spirits, and he wished desperately for once in his life that he had listened to Kael and stayed at Aubade Hall. He wished his father was not a  _ minor _ lord, eager to increase his power and status. He wished he was home in Dalaran.

He did not look up as his mother entered the room, mulling over what few decisions he had. His father was not a mage, did not understand the complexities of magic, or that Dalaran offered Rommath far more opportunities than Silvermoon. His research, his  _ life… _ they were not things he could simply transpose home to Tranquillien.  _ Kael… _ Kael would not leave Dalaran, and Rommath could not ask him to. 

“Copper for your thoughts?” His mother was one of the few elves Rommath would let intrude upon his space. She settled herself on the divan beside him, smoothing her clothes. She had changed not at all in the time he had been away, had been the only one to treat him no differently. To treat their relationship no differently. It was as if he were still a boy, as she lay her hand on his arm, seeking to draw from him his troubles without words. 

He tore his eyes away from the window where he had been staring without seeing. Shifted his center of balance towards her unconsciously. His coffee had grown cold, and he warmed it absent-mindedly.

“Hmm?”

“You seemed so  _ serious, _ ” his mother teased. “What were you thinking?”

Rommath shook his head. “Nothing of substance.” 

She didn’t believe him, he knew. She had never believed his lies, from the time he was small. Always seemed to  _ know _ what was truth and falsehood, even in his letters. She would not press him. She never had.

His mother hummed. “There are a few late fliers,” she said mildly, indicating the window. “I’ve seen the dragonhawk chicks stretching their wings as of late.”

“Oh?” Rommath had always enjoyed watching the dragonhawks. A pair built a nest in the garden every year, and he had always begged for it to be left alone. He had risked the divebombing from the overprotective male, the screeching if he got too close, and it had all been worth it to see the chicks on their spindly legs poking their beaks over the edge, flapping their wings experimentally. He and his siblings used to watch with glee when the chicks began to fly, cheering them on. 

He’d almost forgotten that.

“I haven’t let Cook move the nest,” his mother told him. “I enjoy watching them too.” As a small boy, he’d crawl into his mother’s lap as she sat reading on the back porch, eyes wide as he searched for the tall Amani oak the mating pair had claimed. 

“There are no dragonhawks in Dalaran,” Rommath said softly. Another thing he could only find in Quel’Thalas. Another reason for his homesickness.

His mother squeezed his arm. “Rommath,” she said. “I do want you to come home.” 

He breathed in sharply, bringing his coffee to his lips in a poor attempt at hiding. He couldn’t hide from her anyway.

“Is there some reason you must stay there?” Her eyes were kind, as they’d always been. There was no judgement in her voice. 

_ Yes. _

He gulped his drink, his throat burning.

“Is there, perhaps, a…” His mother seemed to be searching for her words. He thought he knew what she was thinking, what she was trying to say, and he could neither confirm nor deny it. There was a some _ one _ for whom he would remain in Dalaran. And when Kael decided to come home, Rommath would follow. He had made up his mind long ago that wherever Kael went, with Rommath he would be. If he could not have him (and he could not, he knew, ever have Kael in the way he desired), then at least he would stay by his side, his trusted and most loyal companion.

He averted his eyes.

“Rommath.” His mother’s voice was quiet. She was not angry. Not even disappointed. “Do not forget yourself and your duty to this family.” She squeezed his arm again. “But do not cause yourself undue happiness either.”

His gaze slid back to her, eyes widening. “Mother?”

“As long as your conduct remains respectable,” she said slowly, “as long as you continue with your work and take precautions, then as much as I should wish to see you home again, I cannot force you.” 

He stared at her. 

All his life, his father’s word had been law and his mother the enforcer. They had largely left him alone in Dalaran, ignorant as to what was required of him for his studies, but he had known one day his father would summon him home, had known as surely as he breathed that his mother would echo the call. And yet… She sat here, the same woman she had always been, and she was saying… 

“I should like you to come home,” his mother said again. “My heart aches for missing you. But I know that you will come home. Eventually.”

“Eventually,” he repeated, not sure he understood.

“Eventually,” she said firmly, clasping his hand. 

His father wanted him home in lieu of Merhean’s upcoming engagement. His father thought it would spur rumors that his third child was wed before his first. His father thought rumors existed already about his firstborn, beloved companion of the prince. Perhaps they did, and his mother sat before him telling him she did not mind. That she was not so selfish as to deny him what small joys he had found in Dalaran, as long as he － eventually － cast them aside and returned home. As long as he eventually became the son he was expected to be.

It was a small consolation, and he would take it gratefully. It would buy him time.

He left his family estate with mixed feelings, his brow furrowed so deeply as to scar into his face. He returned to Dalaran alone － neither Astalor nor Kael were there waiting. He had never felt more grateful to his mother, but he knew, should he return and visit Quel’Thalas again, his father would not let him go so easily. 

The uneasy silence was broken a few days later with the reappearance of Kael, lamenting miserably that his father had had demands － to return home and marry, to put aside Dalaran and rejoin elven society. 

“I am an archmage, and one of the Six besides!” Kael shouted. “My work cannot be done from Silvermoon!  _ I _ am not done here!”

Well. 

At least Rommath wasn’t the only one suffering. 

He poured Kael a generous glass of strong Gilnean brandy and one for himself, raising it in a grim toast as his prince carried on. He drained it in one long gulp, mouth twisting at the taste.

He didn’t want to think about it. He thought, for once, that he just wanted to think about nothing at all. 

He poured himself another glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fought me every step of the way. It's been rewritten three times. Lor'themar was supposed to be here, and Astalor, and some ironic foreshadowing was supposed to happen... And no one cooperated. I wanted to rip my hair out. Rommath better share that drink with me.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silvermoon marches on Deatholme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter that gave me immense trouble. I wrote this first from the POV of "we have several days until we go to Deatholme," then "we are going to Deatholme," then "fuck that we have a week to march on Deatholme," and Salandria was here at some point. 
> 
> Please note, there are no concrete scene splits, save one, to represent the fading in and out of consciousness. Don't use blood magic, kids.

_ Please be careful when you go to Deatholme. _

“Your left, Grand Magister!” 

Rommath whirled, hands aflame as he caught the pike aiming for his ribs. It burned hungrily, too quickly for the risen corpse to drop, and it caught fire too. A strangled scream rose from the remains of its throat. 

Shrieking preceded shadows as gargoyles descended upon them, and Rommath shot jets of flame one by one upward. He wasn’t quick enough, and a mage was snatched by one of the beasts. Ranger Lord Kelantir Bloodblade and her Farstriders loosed a hail of arrows but the mage was lost.

_ Please be careful when you go to Deatholme. _

A ways away, Liadrin was dueling a death knight on consecrated ground. The death knight’s eyes glowed with unholy blue light, its skin sallow, and Liadrin’s was flushed and covered with a thin sheen of sweat. Umbric and several others were calling down a rain of fire over a small group of ghouls. They seemed not to notice nor care when they caught sparks themselves. The ghouls screamed, their dry skin catching quickly, and when they ran the fire spread.

“Hold formation!” Rommath heard Halduron, somewhere above him. “Steady! Steady!  _ Now! _ ” Another hail of arrows fell, somewhere to his left. These exploded on contact, aimed at the abomination storming toward them. What was left of the creature fell with a wet thump.

It was madness. Dispatching the line guard at the gates had been easy, but with their fall, it seemed that the entirety of Deatholme had risen in challenge. Banshees hurled curses of dark magics with deafening shrieks, gargoyles took to the skies. Ghouls seemingly rose from the ground itself and geists appeared from nowhere. They had lost ten percent of their forces on the first assault alone.

_ Please be careful when you go to Deatholme. _

And Dar’Khan lived in a vast, ugly ziggurat smack in the center, guarded by death knights and statues which may or may not have been gargoyles in disguise. Abominations patrolled the streets, their bulky tremors sending tremors through the ground. The spider creatures that had haunted his nightmares for ten years were everywhere － along the walls, on the rooftops, lurking in the shadows. 

One let out a horrifying sound as Rommath burned it alive, its pincers dripping black ichor. It dropped the Farstrider it had been holding, and the man scrambled away, beating off the flames from his leathers. Rommath shuddered. He hated the creatures, hoped never to see them again.

“Rommath!”

The sky darkened. He heard screeching.

“Look out!”

He felt a blinding pain in his abdomen. Felt thick, stony claws clap down over his shoulder and  _ hold, _ pulling him up, up, up. The gargoyle chittered; he wondered if it even knew the prize it held in its talons. 

Rommath twisted in its grip, uncaring of the nails digging deeper into his flesh to hold him. They wouldn’t matter soon enough. Fire curled around his arms, and he shot it in twin jets in the direction of the beast’s wings. 

The talons were wrenched from his chest without ceremony, the creature shrieking in pain as its wings caught fire, and Rommath fell. Someone caught him in a slow fall － he knew not who － and he did not crumple when he hit the ground. 

“Grand Magister!” A Dawnblade reached for him, and with a snarl he knocked the hand away. He was bleeding profusely － he would be a fool to waste such power. Rommath thrust his shaking hands into his wounds. He had not used blood magic in years but he had not forgotten the warmth, the surge of strength that coursed through his veins as he ripped his fingers from the ragged edges of his flesh. Drops of blood flew round him in an arc as he blasted one damned creature after another, and in the back of his mind he thought he should have carried a sharp knife like he had during the Scourge. Made use of the life force inside him for good for once in his damnable life.

“Rommath!”

His vision had gone red, and he heard the din from very far away. He hardly felt the throb from the wound in his chest. His veins pulsed, and his vision pulsed black in time with his heart, and when he finally crumpled, his front soaked in blood, he lay in a heap among a score of the undead.

* * *

_ “Rommath.” _

_ “Rommath.”  _

_ “Rommath!” _

_ Rommath awoke and he was. First he wasn’t, and now he was. He didn’t question it.  _

_ “There you are,” came a voice, and the tilt of his head followed the twitch of his ear. His chest swelled painfully.  _

_ “Auriel,” he breathed. _

_ His sister sat at his bedside, her face calm and kind. She smiled at him, reached out and threaded her fingers through his.  _

_ “I’ve missed you.” He wasn’t sure who spoke. His sister smoothed his bedcovers with her free hand.  _

_ “And I you.” Her skin was warm to the touch, and when Rommath looked down he thought he saw the telltale glow of Light shining between their fingers, but he wasn’t sure. _

_ “How are you here?” Now that he looked, really looked, he wasn’t sure. His sister was fuzzy around the edges, and perhaps it was a trick of the light but she looked strangely… translucent. If he concentrated, he thought he could see through her to the door beyond. _

_ And where were they? Rommath strained to see but he was unable to move much in his bed. The room was pale, he thought, with old, familiar architecture. A window lay across from them, and through it he could see nothing but bright light.  _

_ “I’m dead, aren’t I?” The thought should fill him with panic, and yet… _

_ “No, dalah’norfal. You are not dead.” _

_ Kael stood, just behind his sister, and he was whole and healthy and the sight of him caused Rommath’s chest to heave.  _

_ “H-how?” he sputtered. And if this were a dream, he never wanted to wake. _

_ “You are in the space between worlds, Rommath,” his sister said gently. With the hand that was not entangled with his, she flicked his sheets away and Rommath saw the mess that was his abdomen, bloodied and raw.  _

_ “You are an idiot,” Kael said bluntly, reaching down to place his palm atop the wound. No blood stained his hand, and Rommath felt no weight on his skin.  _

_ “I used blood magic on the Scourge in Silvermoon,” he argued. _

_ “Ten years ago,” Kael agreed, “when you were not half dead of grief, and I thought you an idiot then as well.” _

_ He should like to sit up, to pull his prince to him and bury his face in his long silver-gold hair, but Rommath couldn’t move, and that, more than anything else, was what frightened him. Auriel squeezed his hand, and though he could not feel her, he felt the Light.  _

_ “We are not here,” she said sadly. “Not really.” _

_ “Speak for yourself,” said Kael. _

_ His sister smiled wryly. Behind her, Rommath thought he saw a faint shimmering, like wings. “The space between worlds is fragile, dear brother. You do not belong here.” _

_ He looked at his sister, at her cool grey eyes, and then to Kael, burning bright as he had in life, his eyes soft and the lines of his mouth solemn. “No.” He tried to sit up. “No, I belong with you.”  _

_ “You don’t.” Kael’s voice was firm.  _

_ “I do. I left you, and look what happened!” _

_ Kael shook his head. “No.” He would not meet Rommath’s eye. “I did not listen. I brought this  _ －  _ my death, and hers, all of it  _ －  _ on us all. I did this to you. I made you into this… shell of an elf. You are not the Rommath I know.” _

_ “Kael!” _

_ Kael glanced at him then, and his eyes were full of pain. “Dying here will not solve anything, Rommath. You must lead Silvermoon as I could not.”  _

_ He struggled against the invisible bonds that held him to his bed. He could not even remove his hand from his sister’s. _

_ Kael stood, and he cast no shadow in the light of the room. “I trust you will do what’s right.” He smiled, suddenly the Kael from their childhood. “I trust you to live.” _

_ “I do not want to live without you!”  _

_ And Kael laughed. A real laugh. “Yes,” he said, “you do.”  _

_ And then he was gone, dissipating into the room like so many dust motes, and if Rommath could cry in this world between worlds, he would dissolve into tears, like the child he had never had the chance to be. His chest hurt. It hurt more than it had any right to. His sister was still pressing on it, and he wished she would stop. _

_ “I don’t want to go back,” he gasped. “Let me move on.” _

_ His sister smiled at him and leaned forward. She pressed a kiss to his forehead. When she spoke, her voice was hard. The voice of a woman who had commanded an army. A woman who had led hundreds to battle. _

_ “No,” she told him. “You still have much to do.”  _

_ She pressed her palm flat to his wounded chest. Pain erupted from the site, rippling from the waves of Light pulsing from beneath her fingers, and Rommath screamed, but his sister only smiled at him, her lips forming words he could not hear. _

* * *

He woke screaming. 

It was dark, and loud, and he thrashed wildly, pain streaking through his body. Opened or closed, his eyes saw nothing, and the throbbing in his abdomen turned his stomach.

“Rommath, Rommath! Calm yourself!”

A hand on his shoulder pushed him firmly down. Rommath was aware dimly of shouting, and then a cool, soothing light washed over him. The panic died down. He breathed hard, every breath causing searing pain in his chest, and he could not remember what it was that had so upset him in the first place.

“Rommath.” He knew that voice, struggled to place it. It was different from the one chanting softly over him. “You’re alright. You’re alive.”

“As… talor?” It had to be Astalor. Who else would visit him in his sickbed?

Relief flooded in. “Yes.” He felt strong hands grip his own. “Rommath, you must rest. I don’t know what you were thinking－”

“I needed… I had to…”

Astalor would never understand. Blood magic terrified him. Had always terrified him. He had never been able to see beyond using one’s own life for power. 

“I know.” His friend’s voice was soft. “I understand. Please, Rommath. Rest.” Astalor held his hands tightly. “You’ve been gravely injured.”

“Dar’Khan…?”

But Astalor’s answer was lost as he was overtaken by sleep.

When he woke next, dawn had begun to pierce through the gloom. His entire body ached. He supposed he deserved it. 

Liadrin dozed beside him. She had a cut over one eye but looked otherwise unharmed. A careful glance around told him he was in a medical tent. Healers milled about. One saw that he was awake and rushed over, held a cup to his lips.

“Water, sir,” he said, and Rommath sipped awkwardly. 

Liadrin stirred. She pulled herself into a sitting position. She lay on no cot － she was no patient. She had come for him.

“You’re awake,” she observed. Her eyes betrayed her worry.

“Unfortunately.”

“I should inform Astalor.” She made no move to leave. “He’s been worried.” 

Rommath made a noncommittal noise. “Always was a crybaby.”

Liadrin frowned. After a moment, she asked, “Did you volunteer for this mission to kill yourself, Rommath?”

He started. “Excuse me?”

She studied him. There were dark circles under her eyes, and he was suddenly unsure of just how long he had been in this tent. “If you wanted to die,” she said slowly, “surely you could have found some other way.”

He snorted and immediately regretted it. All his muscles hurt. “If I’d wanted to die, I would have gone with Kael,” he told her. This was Liadrin, and he had known her for two hundred years. He cared not what she thought. 

“You lost a lot of blood,” she said slowly.

“You don’t do blood magic with a little,” he said bitterly.

“I wasn’t aware you did blood magic at all.” Her tone was cool. Controlled.

“I don’t.” A beat. “Anymore.” 

It was Liadrin’s turn to snort. “I hope this reminds you why.”

“Blood magic is powerful,” he protested. “I destroyed an entire－”

“Blood magic is dangerous!” Liadrin snarled. 

“Only to the user.”

“And what of the people who care for you?”

Rommath closed his eyes. He saw his sister and Kael against the blackness of his lids. “No one cares for me,” he muttered. “I am a traitor, remember?”

He knew Liadrin well enough to imagine her eyeroll. “No one thinks you are a traitor after that display,” she scoffed. “What of Lor’themar and Halduron? Myself?”

He didn’t answer. Deep down he knew that the other members of the Triumvirate only kept him around because they needed him. Without him, the Royal Academy would fall apart. Without him, without the centuries of experience he possessed, they floated on makeshift rafts in a vast, unforgiving sea of politics. 

“What of Astalor and Neeluu?” Liadrin pressed. 

_ Please be careful when you go to Deatholme. _

His chest felt tight. 

“They would be devastated if anything were to happen to you,” Liadrin said bitterly. 

He nearly told her that no one cared for him. He nearly did. But that was a lie. Astalor was his best friend, his companion since boyhood, and Neeluu… 

_ Please be careful when you go to Deatholme. _

“Is Dar’Khan dead?” He didn’t want to talk of himself and caring. 

Liadrin blew a puff of air out angrily. “No,” she admitted reluctantly. “We haven’t breached the ziggurat.” She studied him irritably. “If you hadn’t nearly died, we may have been able to days ago.”

She was needling him. He knew her enough to understand that she had been worried for him too. 

“Next time, I will try and kill myself closer to Dar’Khan,” he joked. She didn’t laugh. 

“You should rest.,” she told him. “I will find Astalor, and send word to Silvermoon.”

He frowned. “How long was I out?”

“Four days.” She rose, and Rommath’s breath caught. Four days?!

“I will go with you.” He struggled to sit up. “I cannot believe－”

“You will stay here.” Liadrin’s words shot out like arrows. 

He scowled. “I am the Grand Magister! You cannot command－”

“You nearly died!” Liadrin’s golden eyes flashed dangerously. “You are of no use to anyone dead, Rommath!” 

He pounded the cot with his fist. “I am no good here either,” he said uselessly, and Liadrin’s gaze softened. Just a little.

“I will order you sedated if I must,” she threatened, but her words had no bite. “We are fine without you for now.” And before he could argue further, she stormed from the tent. 

“You Lightdamn moron.” 

He should have taken Liadrin up on her offer of sedation.

“How can we take Deatholme without our Grand Magister?”

“Nice to see you as well, Brightwing.” 

Rommath was tired. He was tired, and Halduron was loud, and his front hurt from where Halduron had thrown himself against it in embrace. 

“Lor would’ve had my head if you died,” Halduron went on. A shiny burn went up the length of one arm － Rommath had smelled the fires from here. He assumed his magisters had started setting them, using the dryness of the undead against them.

“You both would have been relieved,” Rommath yawned. 

“Well, I could sleep with your mages without fear of immolation,” Halduron joked. Rommath rolled his eyes. “But you’re important, stupid.”

He felt a flicker of irritation, but he was too tired to argue. He lay back against his uncomfortable cot.

“Liadrin would tell me nothing of the battle,” he muttered. “She said I’ve been here four days.”

“Five,” Halduron said. “Midnight was hours ago.”

Rommath groaned.

“We should breach the ziggurat tomorrow. If we’re lucky.” He busied himself cleaning dried blood from under his nails. “Thanks to your failed suicide attempt, Deatholme lost a good amount of force.”

Rommath grimaced. “Seems I was good for something after all.”

Halduron frowned. “You’ve always been good for something.” He filled a cup with water and passed it. Rommath nodded his thanks.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” he grumbled. It hurt, propping himself up enough to drink, and he glared as Halduron bent over to help him.

“It’s not for you,” the ranger said cheerfully. “I wanted to take the opportunity to insult you while you slept, but you were sadly awake.”

“Unfortunate.”

Halduron leaned back, his tired eyes surveying the vast amounts of bandages that swathed Rommath’s upper body. “Very,” he conceded. “It’s much less fun calling you names when you can argue back.”

Rommath rolled his eyes. At least that didn’t hurt.

He didn’t see Astalor for several hours. Halduron had started to fall asleep, his head nodding onto his chest. Rommath himself teetered on the edge of sleep. Was only vaguely aware of the shuffling in the tent, the mumbling at his bedside.

“Thank you,” came Astalor’s voice, soft and tired. “How is he?”

Halduron yawned, his voice straining as he stretched. “Ridiculous.” 

A pause.

“Better. He moves and snarks and threatens violence whenever the healer changes his dressing.”

Astalor chuckled. “Sounds like him.” There was a shift, a rustling of fabric and the creak of leather. “Go get some sleep.”

“I was sleeping,” Halduron protested.

“In a proper bed.”

Halduron stretched again. “I’m a ranger,” he said. “I haven’t slept in a ‘proper bed’ my entire life.”

“You would feel more refreshed,” Astalor said. Halduron shrugged. “Thank you again, Halduron. It… it means a lot to me.”

A beat. A soft clap of leather to shoulder. “I know.” Halduron was quiet. “I once asked a friend to sit vigil at Lor’themar’s bedside for me, when I could not be there. It meant the world to know that he was not alone.” Leather creaked as Halduron stood. “You may ask any time.”

“Goodnight, Halduron.”

“And you, Astalor. Get some sleep, yourself.” 

Rommath lay there, trying to stay awake. He had wanted to see Astalor since he had first woken up, but his eyelids were so heavy…

“Astalor?”

Astalor’s breath caught. He leaned forward. “Rommath?” 

His brain felt foggy. The healers gave him medicine that was too strong, he thought. He slept often and deeply, and when he was awake, it was difficult to string his thoughts together. He tried to open his eyes and failed.

“Glad you’re here.”

He felt Astalor’s hand on his arm. Felt the cool bite of the ring around his finger. 

“Sleep,” his friend urged. “We will talk in the morning.”

The morning was so far away, but already he felt himself slipping. Bantering with Halduron had taken so much out of him…

Astalor was already awake when he opened his eyes, the smell of cheap coffee teasing his nose. He was pale and bore dark circles under his eyes, but he smiled and helped Rommath sit up, poured him a cup of his own.

“Good morning,” he said quietly.

“Good morning.” Rommath felt stiff. He felt like his skin had knit together badly, but the healer assured him twice a day that everything was healing fine. “Did you stay all night?”

Astalor nodded. 

“I pity your back.”

“I do as well,” Astalor chuckled. “I don’t know how Halduron manages. Or any of the rangers.” He stretched, and Rommath heard the popping of vertebrae.

“Why did you ask him to stay?” It had bothered him last night to hear it, and he could not hold back now that he was fully conscious. Astalor frowned.

“Pardon?”

“I’ve not had a moment to myself since I landed in this bed,” Rommath grumbled. “It’s because of you, isn’t it?”

Astalor looked down at his cup, and just as quickly raised his eyes to meet Rommath’s. His voice was bold, though it shook a little. “You are my best friend,” he said. “You are the only family I have. Forgive me if I  _ worry _ about you.”

Rommath was silent.

“You may not care whether you live or die, but I do,” Astalor snapped. “I do, and Neeluu, and Lor’themar and Liadrin and Halduron.”

_ Please be careful when you go to Deatholme. _

“And I don’t care if you outrank me,” his friend went on. “I don’t care if you’re angry or if I have to have Lor’themar order it － I will send you back to Silvermoon if you do something so stupid, so idiotic, so ridiculously moronic－”

“Thank you.” 

Astalor started. He stared at Rommath, gaping like a fish. He wasn’t sure he’d heard right.

“What?”

“Thank you, Astalor.” His chest felt tight, and he was unsure if he was in pain or emotional or both. He reached one hand over, placed it atop Astalor’s on his arm. “I have done few things in life to deserve such a friend as you.” He smiled, though his lips trembled. “Had it not been for you, after Kael’s death, I…” He swallowed. “I would have been truly lost.”

And Astalor, emotional, gentle Astalor, who should not have been in this tent, on this battlefield, surged forward, pulled Rommath toward him. It hurt, but Rommath bore it gladly. He had not always been the best friend － to Astalor or anyone else － but Astalor loved him, was loyal and true; and before he had ever set eyes on Rommath’s sister, they had been brothers through association with Kael. Astalor was truly his only family, and Rommath had been a fool to think he was alone in the world. 

“You’re going to open his wounds,” came the dry voice of the healer, and Astalor drew back. His eyes were wet. (Perhaps Rommath’s were too, but no one mentioned it.) 

“You will not touch me,” Rommath hissed.

The healer was unfazed. “Lay down, Grand Magister. I’ve lots of patients to tend to.”

(Astalor had to hold him down, and Rommath would deny until his dying day that he had screamed when the healer peeled off his bandages.)

The skin along his wounds was puckered and angry but thankfully not infected. Astalor looked away as the healer smeared a thick orange salve along the marks. Rommath had not been coherent enough until now to truly see the damage the gargoyle and his blood magic had done. He knew the talons had punctured his shoulder all the way through; he felt it when he moved. The beast had raked great angry wounds along his abdomen, broken a few ribs. The healer had removed the necrosis from its death magic, and his ribs had been set, but healing from blood magic took time. Rommath did not think he would see the storming of Dar’Khan’s ziggurat.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” the healer asked, tying off his new, clean dressing. Rommath glared darkly at the man. His skin felt on fire. 

(His sister would have been gentler, he thought. But then again, he had never been healed by his sister.)

“Try not to move much,” the healer warned over his shoulder, and Rommath made a face.

“Rommath,” Astalor chided.

He thumped the bed with his fist. “I am  _ useless _ here.”

“You should have thought of that before you used blood magic.”

“The next time I won’t take out a hundred Scourge then,” Rommath snapped. “I won’t fight back at all.”

Astalor rolled his eyes. “Good to have you back, stupid.” 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter tried to kill me. I had a two day migraine, and twice I pulled a muscle in my back. I am typing this from my laptop in my bed, and I want to die.
> 
> Who wants to guess what happened to Rommath in the place between worlds?


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rommath finds the key to toppling Dar'Khan's army.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, the lack of cohesive scene breaks represent the fading in and out of consciousness. 
> 
> Note: Rommath doesn't know what nerubians are. They're just gross spider things to him.

Deatholme had been besieged for three weeks. When one’s army was highly susceptible to fire, they were easy to decimate, and the only warriors left were made of bone and plate. The last abomination had fallen the night before last, and a Dawnblade had sliced the wings off the last gargoyle. Unless Dar’Khan enchanted the very stone to fight for him, the ziggurat would fall. 

Rommath watched from the command tent, leaning heavily on his staff. The smoke made his eyes water, and when he coughed, pain shot through his veins, but he had refused to be evacuated with the wounded. He was not an invalid.

“We should set it ablaze,” muttered Dark Ranger Areiel, somewhere to his left. “The whole damn thing.”

“We need his head,” Rommath reminded her.

“Elves all look the same to orcs,” she grumbled. “They would not know if we brought them the head of some other fool.”

His ears flicked as she came to stand beside him, red eyes narrowed. “As much as I would delight in hearing the traitor scream, I would be _sure_ of his death,” he said darkly. “Burning the ziggurat proves nothing.” 

Areiel glared in the direction of the ziggurat, swarmed by their army. A group of Farstriders was constructing a battering ram behind them. 

“He burned my tree,” she hissed. “I would burn his fortress.” 

Rommath didn’t reply. He understood far too well the hatred the dark ranger had for Dar’Khan. That they all had for him. Rommath had never met the man, but he had been a magister, and in aiding Arthas, Dar’Khan had betrayed the very institution that had made Silvermoon everything it was. He understood that many of Sylvanas’s rangers were here for revenge. That they had been killed on the ground Dar’Khan now held. That because of him, they had had to die at all. 

He wished he were on the front lines. Liadrin and Halduron were there. And somewhere in the fray was Astalor, and it chilled Rommath to the bone to think of his friend fighting when he himself could not.

Somewhere, a hunting horn sounded. Three sharp blasts. The signal to charge.

“I’m to tell you to stay here,” Areiel muttered. She reached for her bow and quiver. “Stay out of trouble and such.” She slung the quiver over one shoulder, regarding him coolly. “In my opinion, you’re more than capable of handling yourself.” 

And then she was gone, slipping amongst the shadows as though she had never been.

Rommath gripped his staff tightly. Set his jaw. He agreed with her, he really did. He may need the staff to walk until he healed properly, and the healers didn’t want him walking at all, but he didn’t need to walk to call fire from his soul. There was nothing preventing him from standing at the rear and raining flame in high arcs down upon the ziggurat. 

(Except that he had promised Astalor. Under threat of evacuation to Silvermoon, he had sworn to his friend he would not charge back into battle. Rommath cared little for threats, and Astalor had no power over him anyway. But the look in his oldest friend’s eyes, the desperate, haunted glare, had wrenched agreement from him. And Rommath did not go back on his word.)

He listened to the slamming of the battering ram, the guttural roars of the skeletal soldiers. Dar’Khan’s keep was heavily fortified, but the magic of the great tree Thas’alah had only existed while it lived. If he had hoped to use that magic for his own nefarious purposes, he had made a grave mistake cutting the tree down.

(Deatholme was made from wood. Rommath was only partly truthful to Areiel when he dismissed the idea of burning the ziggurat. To be honest, he could not bear the thought of setting flame to the last remains of the World Tree of Quel’Thalas.)

His chest hurt, and his ribs, and his back too. He needed to sit (he really needed to sleep, but he would be damned if he slept through this battle), needed to take pressure off his muscles. He felt three thousand years old.

He carefully eased himself into the tent’s single chair, determined to ignore the throbbing pain in his side. 

* * *

Rommath woke to screaming.

He hauled himself out of his chair, cursing his weakness, groping for his staff. He had no idea how long he’d been asleep. (How could he have fallen asleep?) He threw himself at the tent flap and wrenched it open.

_Slaughter._

Dar’Khan would not fall so easily. The army had breached the ziggurat, and upon doing so, triggered what could only have been some sort of magical trap. Rommath swore － had he been awake, had he not been _weak,_ he would have seen it. He would have been able to dismantle it. 

Death knights stormed through the troops. Their swords glowed with eerie light, and when the blades plunged into the soldiers, they pulsed. _Soulblades,_ Rommath realized. Every life taken only served to strengthen the blade. 

Arcane constructs swarmed the ziggurat, tainted with death magic, and spider creatures shot thick webbing from the ramparts. None of the army had made it inside. Rommath’s eyes darted around, looking for something, _anything._ There had to be something that controlled the trap. Dar’Khan couldn’t possibly power it himself.

_Think, Rommath, think. It needs a power source._

He crept away from the command tent, leaning heavily on his staff. Each step was laborious, but he couldn’t see from the tent. A Dawnblade landed not five feet away, thrown hard by a death knight. The Dawnblade gasped for air, struggling to find purchase against the cursed soil as the death knight advanced. He had no weapon.

“Move, you fool!” Rommath snarled. He ran, ignoring the burning in his chest. Channeling the feeling, focusing all his energy, he pulled the fire from his soul and swung his staff, the weapon an extension of his arm as flames burst from it. The death knight’s face showed no fear as the inferno surged toward her. Her armor caught, and her sword flared. Rommath had never seen a death knight up close. They had been Arthas’s personal guards, and he had never faced Arthas. The death knight never faltered. Hers was an older body, the decay more apparent. She burned easily, her face frozen in a mask of determination. The remains fell just short of the Dawnblade, the soulblade clattering to the ground.

Rommath fell to his knees, smoldering gently, breathing hard. He glared at the Dawnblade who, now that he’d regained his breath, was reaching for the blade. “Don’t touch it!” 

The Dawnblade froze. 

“Leave the weapons,” he ordered. “Kill the knights, but leave the weapons where they lay. They’re cursed.” 

The soldier didn’t move. Rommath scowled.

“Go now!” he screamed. “Give the order! Tell them it comes by the mouth of the Grand Magister!” He glared daggers as the Dawnblade picked himself up and ran off, his eyes only sliding the soulblade once he was out of sight.

If anyone could use the cursed blade, it would be a Dawnblade. He had no doubt. But he didn’t want the army getting any ideas. He took several deep breaths, disregarding the pain blooming beneath his ribs. 

Using his staff as leverage, he hoisted himself back to his feet. He had to find the source of Dar’Khan’s trap. 

_He wouldn’t be stupid enough to keep it in the ziggurat._

Rommath swept the hair from his eyes and looked around. He needed a building mostly intact. He tried to remember the little he had studied on mixing schools of magic － Dar’Khan had surely woven curse magic into the arcane.

_An intact building. Four clearly marked points. Think, Rommath._

Or maybe… 

One of the smaller ziggurats. Rommath squinted. It seemed to be covered in an arcane glamour. He focused on it, trying to find the seams.

There was definitely something there. 

Rommath gritted his teeth. He couldn’t call attention to it, couldn’t call for help. Doing so would alert Dar’Khan, and that would spell disaster for the army. 

He snuck over, as unobtrusively as he could. There were no death knights here, no banshees or ghouls. At first Rommath thought it to be completely unguarded until he heard it. The clicking. Those spider creatures, talking to each other in their horrible, evil language. 

(Rommath decided he hated spiders.)

He squinted. Felt along the wood, along the arcane seam, until he found the latch. To the naked eye, he grasped merely flat wall, but Rommath’s fingers hooked around a brass ring and he pulled. He dug his feet into the ground and _hauled,_ and the door he sought came free. 

There was blood on his robes. He would deal with it later. 

Beyond the door lay a small passage, and Rommath followed it, breathing heavily through his nose. He leaned against the wall for support. The clicking grew louder.

The passage emptied into a small chamber filled with eerie bluish light. Two spider creatures stood clicking and waving their grotesque arms around a cloudy black orb. Thick webbing insulated the chamber, preventing most of their chittering from escaping to the outside. 

Rommath grimaced. He hated these things. 

He flattened himself against the wall. He wasn’t sure he had the energy to destroy two spiders and a pulsating dark orb. He placed a hand to his chest. It was damp. 

The spell Dar’Khan had constructed rendered his arcane soldiers into flesh and blood fighters. If he destroyed the orb, their bodies would melt back into the arcane projections which they had always been, unable to attack, no more than projections of arcane light. He and Kael had constructed similar projections in Dalaran, but never had theirs been able to harm. At another time, he would be fascinated, would want to bring this orb back to the Forbidden Library and study it, see if it could be of any use to Silvermoon. 

He pressed hard to the opened wounds at his chest. Maybe someday. 

Rommath dug his nails into the fabric of his robes, feeling the blood ooze around his fingers. He may not have the _energy_ for this task, but he certainly had the _blood._

_I’m sorry, Astalor._

He breathed in deeply. Felt the pull of the blood from his veins, the warmth of the magic. The air grew hot. He was dimly aware that the clicking had grown angry, confused. He closed his eyes, concentrated not on the pain swirling in his body, emanating deep into his bones, but on calling forth the fire.

 _You have fire in your soul, my boy._ Hadn’t Belo’vir told him that? It felt like so very long ago. 

Screams filled his ears. He thought they might be his own. 

Fire and blood pulsed swirled around him, engulfing him in a raging inferno. It built slowly, steadily, and the creatures’ death magic could not pierce it. His hair whipped around him, and when he opened his eyes, he saw only the orange of fire, the red of blood. 

The clicking became shrieks, hissing as the water in the creatures’ bodies turned to steam and escaped through their carapaces. Still the orb pulsed on. 

Rommath moved his arms in a graceful arc. He flattened his thumbs and third fingers to his palms, the back of his hands facing outwards. When he breathed, smoke curled from his nose and mouth. 

_Please be careful when you go to Deatholme._

Flames licked at his feet, erupting from his very skin. He poured his all into the spell, the fire wrapping around the orb. The glass reddened. Blood dripped from Rommath’s wounds.

_You may not care if you live or die but I do. You’re the only family I have left._

He threw the drops into the flame, willed them to bore into the crystal orb. The room was on fire. Perhaps he was on fire. He didn’t know. He didn’t care anymore. All that mattered was the death of Dar’Khan.

_Make me proud, son._

Cracks skittered across the orb’s surface. Steam hissed from them, black magic crackling like electricity. Rommath felt weak － he shook it off. This was no time for weakness. 

The orb shattered. Everything went black.

Footsteps. Coughing, and the smell of smoke. The splintering of wood.

“He’s over here!”

“The building’s collapsing!”

“Hurry!”

* * *

_Everything hurt. He couldn’t move, which was just as well. Breathing hurt enough that he didn’t want to attempt moving._

_“Rommath.”_

_His sister again. His head pounded as he peered through his lashes. He felt as though he had seen her before._

_She was frowning. Her eyes glowed, not the green of the fel or the blue they had once been, but some strange, unearthly white. They glowed with the Light. Wings sprouted from her back, huge and shimmering. She seemed to be caught in a gentle breeze, and the feathers of her wings ruffled into it._

_“This wasn’t how it was supposed to be,” she said mournfully. “This wasn’t what I meant.”_

_He didn’t know what she was talking about._

_“I have missed you, brother.” Her gaze was sad. “I will ask you once, and only once. Choose wisely.” She gestured behind her, to a nondescript doorway. Light filtered through the cracks. “Do you wish to move on?”_

_It hurt to keep his eyes open, and it hurt more to close them. He took a deep breath, his skin wrenching apart._

_He chewed the inside of his lip._

_“No.” It came as a whisper._

_“No?” His sister’s face was unreadable._

_“No.”_

_His sister floated toward him on the unseen winds, and when she bent over him, she looked as though she would cry._

_“I’m glad,” she murmured. “You do not belong here. Not yet.”_

_“Auriel…”_

_“I cannot offer you this chance again, brother. Use it well.”_

_She placed a warm hand on his chest. Light flared beneath her fingers, and she pushed it down. It was agony, Rommath gritted his teeth against the pain, but it spread through his veins like the blood he had lost, and his sister pressed so hard against his skin. His vision blurred around the edges, he wasn’t sure if it was white or black or if the pain made him see a whole new spectrum of color. His sister was humming, her voice clear and sweet…_

* * *

“Someone, quick! He’s awake!”

“More prayerblossom extract!”

“Someone fetch spineleaf salve!”

“Ow! I’ll need a sedative!”

His skin was on fire and his muscles burned. His very veins pulsed with shock. Someone had grabbed him, and there was a sweet liquid trickling down his throat, and then nothing at all.

Someone was rubbing cream on his chest. It tingled and burned and cooled all at once. It was on his arms and his stomach. His neck.

“What is that?” The voice was sharp, critical. Liadrin.

“Salve of wyrmtail.” 

“Will it keep him alive until we reach the city?” 

“It’s the strongest thing I have, ma’am.” 

He groaned as the healer’s fingers touched a deep wound. He blacked out.

“Has the High Priest seen him?”

“All morning.”

“Bring him to me.” 

There was a creaking as the speaker sat. Rommath felt a gentle weight at his side, a soft hand on his own. He groaned in his half conscious state, and the hand was withdrawn.

“Can you hear me, Rommath?” The deep voice. Rommath knew it. 

He tried to speak, but could put no force behind his words. He could not even open his eyes. Even his eyelids hurt. He just wanted to sleep.

“You summoned me, Regent Lord?”

“Yes.” Lor’themar’s voice was quick to respond. “How is he?”

A pause. 

“It isn’t good, sir.” Kath’mar sounded exhausted. “He’s lost a lot of blood, and they told me he didn’t have much to begin with. He’s badly burned and his pain is very high. He’s been sedated since they pulled him from the ziggurat.”

“Has he woken at all?”

“Only to scream.” 

A beat became two and then three. 

“Were any fragments of that orb recovered? Would that help?”

“Probably not, sir. On both accounts.” There was a rustling, and then Kath’mar’s voice was closer. “I can treat the burns. But the Light only does so much against blood magic.”

Lor’themar breathed in sharply through his nose. The only blood magic he knew was practiced by trolls. It was a great deal more savage than what Rommath had done.

“Usually practitioners are not so reckless. I can’t believe he’s alive, honestly.” 

“Will he live?”

“My job is to see that he does, sir.”

“Good.” Lor’themar’s voice was hard. “Don’t forget that.”

He knew when he was dreaming and when he was awake. He spent much of his time dreaming. 

In his dreams, Rommath saw Kael as he had been. The sun, the light of his life. Kael laughing, bringing him coffee and cajoling him to drink. He saw Astalor, hand clutched tight to the ring hanging from his neck, weeping, and his sister’s spirit, unable to comfort him. Liadrin, urging Astalor to eat, beckoning him － younger, more hesitant － to pick up a sword and fight. 

He saw Lor’themar and Halduron battle trolls and undead, felt the pain in his gut as Lor’themar was stabbed. He saw Neeluu descend the Spire’s bridge, robed in Sunstrider regalia and wearing the phoenix crown. Saw her toss it aside, the crown and scepter both, and run, and run, and run. Saw the head of Dar’Khan offered to a greenskinned orc on a literal silver platter.

His mother was crying. 

His eyes burned. His lungs ached. Someone was crying nearby. 

Not his mother. His mother was dead.

He had lost the persistent throbbing behind his eyeballs. He didn’t know if that meant he was closer or farther from dying. His heart beat dully, the slow _thump thump thump_ telling him he still lived. 

That was a good thing. Probably.

He stopped understanding where his dreams and reality came together. Nothing made sense anymore. Moving still hurt, but sometimes in his dreams he opened his eyes. Sometimes Kath’mar was there, skimming glowing hands over his body, painstakingly knitting together inch after tattered inch of skin. Sometimes his assistant － his apprentice? Rommath didn’t know his name － who dripped sweet water into his mouth and changed his bandages as he fell back into unconsciousness. 

Liadrin was often disapproving, her mouth turned down in frown, yet other times she was sweet and caring. There were flowers at his bedside, he’d seen Liadrin’s girl pick them. 

Lor’themar was worried. In his office, in his home. He carried his anxiety like a dark cloud. When Halduron visited, they talked, but Rommath could not understand what they said. He thought that part was the dream. 

And Astalor, always Astalor. He didn’t need to be awake to know his friend was there. Astalor with his books, fervently reading. Sobbing, fretting. Neeluu sat with him sometimes, her hands shaking. 

Rommath didn’t know how to tell them he was okay. He felt as though he were seeing them outside his own body, and when he reached for them, his fingers brushed nothing but air. 

“－the Sunwell－”

“－can’t be moved－”

“－hasn’t woken－!”

People were shouting. Astalor and Kath’mar. The noise bothered him. He turned his head, ignoring the static of pain that sliced up the side of his neck. If they would all be quiet, he could sleep this off. He would be better in the morning. 

Someone was touching him. It was not Kath’mar, with whose large, broad hands he had become intimately familiar. They were mindful of his wounds. 

“Rommath.” The voice was soft, feminine. Her hands were cool. 

He heard a quiet splash, and the hand returned. It pressed lightly to his chest and he groaned, his muscles contracting at the warmth that suddenly seeped down into them. The room smelled of antiseptic and herbs and Rommath, long since desensitized to them, easily was able to discern the scents of arcane and Light. The water trickled over his skin, leaving trails that tingled as the drops soaked in. 

“Can you hear me?” The hand, freshly dipped, skirted along scars and scabbed over wounds. He felt lighter, and his skin did not spasm in agony at the touch. He felt numb, numb like so many salves had failed to do, and it was complete and total bliss. He flexed his fingers, and barely a dull ache remained. 

“Look!”

“Rommath?” The speaker’s hand, damp and warm, cupped his cheek. Rommath’s eyes rolled behind his lids, and he passed out.

When he came to, it was late afternoon. The sun spilled orange light into an unfamiliar room and he winced at the brightness. His head throbbed vaguely, and he closed his eyes again. 

He heard rustling, in a far corner of the room. Someone digging through cabinets. And more, somewhere to his left. 

“I don’t know that this is working, my lady.” That was Kath’mar. “I don’t mean to insult, but perhaps you should not waste so much time traveling back and forth.”

“The waters of the Sunwell are the most potent cure in all Azeroth,” came a feminine voice, shocking in its sharpness. Rommath almost couldn’t place it, except… 

“And the Grand Magister is attended to by the most competent healers,” Kath’mar added. “It is in the Light’s hands.”

“And the Sunwell is in mine.” 

_Neeluu._

Kath’mar sighed. “Will you be taking your dinner here again?” 

“Yes.” There was the sound of a chair scraping across the floor.

“I will have a servant sent up, my lady.” A door closed across the room after several moments. 

Rommath lay there quietly. He didn’t feel the pull of sleep quite as strongly as before. He flexed his fingers underneath his covers and found that they did not hurt, were only sore. Carefully, expecting the irritation at moving, he very slowly opened his eyes.

Neeluu sat at his bedside. She wore a plain gown, her hair pulled loosely back. On a nearby table sat a vase of flowers and a bowl of shimmering water. Her faintly glowing hands held a book, but she was not reading. Her eyes were closed, tired. 

His throat felt stuffy and raw from disuse. He wondered dimly how long it had been since he had spoken. He tried, and what came out was barely above a whisper.

“Hi.”

Neeluu started, jumping so badly her book fell from her lap to the floor with a _thump._ Her eyes snapped open, honing in immediately on him.

“R-Rommath?”

She threw herself forward, stopping just short of throwing her arms around him. She stared at him, eyes wide and quickly filling. “You’re awake,” she breathed. “You’re awake!”

“I seem to be.” His voice petered out at the end, leaving him to finish his sentence with no sound. 

Neeluu didn’t seem to know what to say. To be fair, Rommath didn’t either. Tenderly, she reached for his hand, held it through his covers. He felt only pressure, no pain. 

“I’m so glad you’re back...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, y'all: Rommath fucking died. He's alive at the end, but he totally died. That's why, in the space between worlds, Auriel was so upset. "I sent you back and you fucking killed yourself, what the fuck." 
> 
> Funner fact: I was trying to find a spell in canon for Rommath yell like an anime character when he destroyed the orb that powered Dar'Khan's army. My dumb anime brain kept screaming ZETTAFLARE. #uselessKH3reference
> 
> Note: Don't use zettaflare, kids. You'll fucking die.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King Anasterian asks Rommath's opinion; and Belo'vir makes him an offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We in the past again, yo.

> _From the desk of His Esteemed Grace the Grand Magister, Lord Belo’vir Salonar,_
> 
> _His Majesty the King requests the presence of Archmage Rommath within the week. Accommodations will be made for travel._

* * *

The missive came several days ago, written in a neat hand on creamy parchment. Rommath had been avoiding it. He couldn’t possibly see what King Anasterian had wanted with him.

Now, in his old bedchamber in the Spire, he wished he hadn’t come. He felt sick. 

He had been escorted to Anasterian’s private sitting room. When he and Kael were boys, he had been in this room often. The king had liked to spend time with his son in the evenings, and Kael had more than welcomed the opportunity to demonstrate his skills to his father. Rommath and Astalor were often asked about their own advancements, or sometimes they read or played fethesi, an old noble’s game. Rommath hadn’t been in the sitting room in a long time. 

The king sat in his large winged armchair, gaze turned towards the unlit fireplace. He still wore his uniform of office, the brocade cloak and fine pants, the stiff leather boots, and Rommath did not know if this put him at ease or on edge. Anasterian looked up as he entered.

“Rommath,” he said with a smile, and he rose to embrace him. “It is good to see you, my boy. I had thought you would visit with Kael.”

Rommath relaxed. The king had never been quite a proper authority figure to him, not in any parental sense, but he had always been more fatherly than even Rommath’s own, and the time spent away from the Spire seemed not to have diminished the king’s affections. 

“My apologies, your majesty.” Rommath bowed his head. “I had not meant for any personal visits at all, but Kael…”

The king laughed. “I imagine he forced you into it, did he?”

“You know him too well, sir.” Rommath grinned. 

Anasterian bid him sit down, and they spoke at length of Dalaran, of Rommath’s studies and research. He seemed most interested in the development of Rommath’s arcane projections, though Rommath considered them second to Kael’s own.

“Kael has created an armory of arcane weaponry,” he told the king. “He shouldn’t even need a guard.”

Anasterian seemed amused. “No,” he agreed. “Surrounding himself with an assortment of arcane blades, with you to keep them in check. I should think he would be well protected.” 

Rommath basked in the praise. 

“And your friends － it seems as though you and Kael have surrounded yourselves with good, decent people.” Anasterian nodded approvingly. 

“Kael has made it his mission to immerse himself in all the different cultures Dalaran has to offer, your majesty.” He wisely did not mention that much of Kael’s immersion came from drinking games and whoring. If Anasterian suspected, he did not let on. 

“Let us continue this discussion under no illusions, Rommath. I am sure my son stomped back to the city very angry with me.”

Rommath averted his eyes.

“I have always had great faith in you to guide my son where his brashness may otherwise tempt him.” Anasterian sighed. “He always listened to you. Astalor has never had the gall to stand up to him the way you do, and he scorns my interference.”

“I have always found that Kael responds best to utter apathy, your majesty,” Rommath confided. Anasterian laughed at this. 

“I’ll have to remember that,” he mused. “Do your friends practice this apathy as well?”

“I have done my best to impress it upon them.” 

“I should think it fortunate that Thalorien Dawnseeker did not turn out to be a mage,” Anasterian chuckled.

Rommath frowned. “I don’t think I would be able to handle them both,” he confessed. “I am glad he is the Swordbearer and not the Light of Dawn.”

“You are acquainted with her, are you not?” Anasterian asked. “The Light of Dawn?”

He nodded. “The Lady Neeluu’s friendship is quite valued,” he said honestly. “She is…” He thought for a moment. Remembered their closeness, the way Neeluu was almost unafraid to speak her mind with Kael. (He recalled for a moment how , were it not for Rommath, Neeluu would have shouted Kael down in the middle of a shady tavern.) “I believe the Lady Neeluu to be the only woman Kael allows to speak honestly to him.”

Anasterian’s face was unreadable. “How would you describe her?” he asked. “Her manner, her studiousness?”

Rommath didn’t like where this was headed. “She is very dedicated to her studies, your majesty,” he told him. “She is a student of Archmage Antonidas.”

The king nodded. “I had heard. Antonidas does not often take pupils.”

“He sees much promise in her.” He did not mention Jaina. “She is polite and refined, and makes friends easily.” Neeluu had a large friend group outside of himself and Kael, he knew. He had often seen her laughing with other girls, and she seemed to know the names of everyone in Dalaran, all the shopkeeps and waitstaff. His thoughts strayed to the pink hellebore blossom she had pressed into his hand to stave off the chill of winter. “And she is very kind, your majesty, in all the ways Kael wishes he could be.”

Anasterian took in this information quietly. Rommath chewed his lip.

“Would you say － honestly － that she would be a good match for my son?” 

And Rommath had known it was coming. With Kael’s tirade against his father’s demands and now Anasterian’s invitation to speak, it was only a matter of time. And though they were quite old enough that the discussion should not come as a surprise, and though Rommath had had the same talk with his own father, he still felt it would have hurt less if his king had smacked him full in the face with the broad side of his sword. 

“Your majesty?”

“The Warden Dawnseeker has proposed a union between our two houses,” the king confided, “and I confess, I think it a good idea.”

Rommath tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach.

“I had intended to put the question to Kael himself, but he reacted rather… violently to the idea.” Anasterian frowned. “I think he had intentions of marrying for love, or not at all. But such luxury is not afforded to him as crown prince.”

Rommath nodded automatically.

“I do not wish him to be unhappy, however,” the king continued. “I would not agree to such a match if they truly detested one another.” 

Rommath’s pulse pounded in his ears. This was not like the conversation with his father, the vague threats of _someone_ and _someday._ Things he could ignore. This was a name, a face he knew. Kael would forever be beyond his reach.

(Kael had never been within his reach.)

He swallowed.

“I believe… they are quite fond of one another,” he said slowly. The words felt heavy on his tongue. He could not lie to Anasterian. “They… they would be good for one another.” _Neeluu would be good for Kael._

(He did not want to think about Neeluu with Kael.)

Anasterian made a small sound of relief. “Thank you, Rommath. Your honesty has always been much appreciated.”

Rommath had not eaten much at dinner. He had retired to his old bedchamber and crawled into bed. He did not bother undressing. His stomach churned. 

He had effectively sold his prince into marriage. Kael would never forgive him.

(He would never have Kael.)

* * *

Kael was in a foul mood when he returned from Silvermoon.

“I’d say you got a good deal,” Telonicus commented. “Better than me.” He made a face.

“Rommath!” Kael rounded on him. Threw a piece of parchment in his face. “Can you _believe_ － look what my father has done!” 

Heart pounding, Rommath smoothed the parchment and looked it over. A letter from Anasterian, telling Kael of his betrothal to the Lady Neeluu.

“Congratulations,” he said slowly. Kael frowned. 

“ _Congratulations_? That’s all you have to say?” He threw himself dramatically into a chair. “My father knows I have no wish to marry, that I cannot afford the time away from my work and that I will _not_ leave Dalaran, and yet he arranges this… this…”

Rommath steeled his expression. “You’re being ridiculous,” he grumbled. “My father wishes me to marry and start my own family as well.”

“Your father didn’t pick your bride from a lineup like some prized hawkstrider!”

“Not yet.” 

“My fiancée has the face of a troll,” Telonicus muttered. “Yours, at least, is pretty.” (Telonicus had taken to the news of his own betrothal six months prior rather well, all things considered. He wrote her twice a month and otherwise pretended she did not exist. His tempestuous relationship with Capernian remained unaffected.)

“Oh Kael.” Rommath waved him off. His stomach was in knots. “I wasn’t aware you disliked Neeluu to this extent.”

Kael scowled. “It’s not _her_ I object to.” He crumpled the letter. “Neeluu will make a fine wife and a great queen.” 

(Rommath knew Kael did not want to be king. That if it were up to him, his father would never die and Kael could continue living his life of debauchery and freedom in Dalaran.)

“You knew you would never be given a say,” he reminded Kael. “Be thankful your father chose a friend and not a stranger.”

“Be thankful your father chose someone titled _and_ beautiful,” Telonicus added. 

“I think you exaggerate your intended’s ugliness,” Kael snapped. 

“I do not,” Telonicus insisted. 

His prince threw up his hands. “I am a _prince!_ Why may I never make my own decisions?!”

_Because you would start a war with Lordaeron and Kul Tiras both over a silly human girl._

“We must all do things we do not want to do,” Rommath said solemnly. “I expect I will have to talk you into returning home as well?”

“I am not returning to Silvermoon!” Kael hissed. 

“Run away,” Telonicus chirped.

Rommath sighed. He truly was the only one among them all whose words held any sway.

* * *

Watching Kael with Neeluu was unbearable. 

Whatever his private reservations, Kael made no secret of their betrothal. On the day of the announcement in Quel’Thalas, Rommath saw Kael not once, only to learn the next day that his prince had whisked the Light of Dawn away for a private day together, and when he next saw Neeluu, she wore a beautiful emerald set in a golden band. They took meals together, when Kael was not occupied with business on the Council of Six, and he often sought her opinion on his work. 

(Rommath tried to remember that things were not so different before the announcement. He tried very hard.)

For Neeluu, Kael attempted to mend the wrong he had committed by Jaina Proudmoore, and perhaps it worked, because slowly the human sorceress melded back into their little group. (Or perhaps Jaina merely put up with him for Neeluu’s sake.) Rommath often found the three of them together in the evenings, Neeluu and Jaina studying just as they had always done and Kael trying desperately to nose his way in. It bothered him, and Rommath would take it upon himself to remind Kael that the girls were still _students_ and they had important work to do that _did not concern him._

(Kael always laughed at this, would joke that Rommath was jealous. He was right, of course, though he was unaware of that.)

“We’ve all important work, Rommath,” Kael would chuckle. “I’m sure my _fiancée_ values my input just as dearly as I value hers on my work.” And when he said _fiancée,_ he would look back at her and smirk.

“Actually,” Neeluu would say quietly, “I believe this would go much more quickly if you were not constantly butting in.” And she would smile a little to herself, and Jaina would laugh, and Kael would feign hurt and pout. And Rommath would tear his eyes away because frankly, the entire display made him ill.

“There will be no wedding until Neeluu has completed her studies,” Kael announced grandly one night. “Warden Dawnseeker was quite adamant, and I of course could not deny him.”

Rommath rolled his eyes. “Congratulations,” he groused. “You have escaped yet another responsibility.”

“Yes, indeed I have!” Kael puffed out his chest proudly. “I am very fortunate to have a father-in-law who values his daughter’s education.”

“I assume you spoke with him.”

“I did. I impressed upon him how wasteful it would be to squander such talent, to not allow it reach its fullest potential before dear Neeluu returns to Silvermoon.” Kael poured himself a glass of wine. “She would never be allowed to remain in Dalaran as my wife. It would be inappropriate.” He took a long, deep draught. “The Warden agreed with me in the end, and that’s all that matters.” He grinned.

“Truly, you will be a wonderful husband,” Rommath drawled. He sounded bitter and he knew it; Kael seemed not to pick up on it. 

“Fear not, Rommath, for I have no intention of giving up my freedom as yet!” Kael slammed his glass down on the table. “We shall still have many nights to ourselves, you and I.”

Rommath rolled his eyes. “Will you never grow up?”

Kael laughed. “Why Rommath! Why ever would I do that?”

(Rommath told himself it was better this way. Kael had a chance at happiness if he married Neeluu. He was fond of her and she of him. And most importantly, she was not Jaina Proudmoore.)

* * *

When the letter came, his answer was easy enough. He debated only an afternoon. Just long enough for his gut to clench as he witnessed Kael press his lips to Neeluu’s hair, the look of genuine affection on his prince’s face as they chanced upon her reading in the Violet Gardens. 

He couldn’t stay here.

He penned Belo’vir an answer that night.

_To His Esteemed Grace, the Grand Magister,_

_I would be most honored to accept a position as your apprentice._

_Yours respectfully, Archmage Rommath_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fethesi comes from [shinyforce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinyforce/pseuds/shinyforce)'s works, most notably [Impossible](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12088695/chapters/27399756).


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rommath prepares to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in one day?? I got excited. Plus you guys know the chapters go 2/2, so I'm really just uploading the second half of the last chapter.
> 
> Unrelated news: GUYS DID YOU HEAR. FAIRSHAW IS CANON. I SHIP THOSE FUCKERS SO HARD AND BLIZZARD JUST COMES OUT AND SAYS "YUP THEY GAY" LIKE CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?!
> 
> I'm hesitant to attempt Fairshaw when I've got my claws in Enough, Trueshot Remedy, and the C'est la Vie 5 series, so to celebrate instead, here's some good old fashion Kael/Rommath angst.

Rommath did not want to leave Dalaran. He did not want to leave its gregarious library and dusty tomes, its classrooms and laboratories. He did not want to leave the simple, shingled roofs and carefully manicured gardens. He did not even want to leave behind its vast array of baked goods, too sweet though he grumbled they were. He stood at his window, eyes following the night watchman as he lit the street lamps － by hand! As if they did not live in a magic city! － and sighed. Rommath loved Dalaran with all his heart, but his heart hurt, and he felt that if he stayed, it would break.

He had packed. Carefully, with his lists and checkmarks. Ripped it all apart and thrown everything back, haphazard and careless. Kicked the trunk over and watched everything spill out － his silks and books and various accumulated knick knacks － and run a shaky hand through his hair, before dropping to his knees and slowly, painstakingly sorting through it all. 

His heavy winter cloaks and runecloth robes he would not need in Quel’Thalas. Nor the thick woolen socks his mother sent him every Winter Veil, or the comfortably soft gloves given to him many years ago by Astalor. (His hands always froze in winter, rough and chapped, and for decades Astalor bemoaned the lack of any decent protection from the Alterac winds. When he had chanced upon a fine pair of kidskin gloves, the leather supple and soft and the inside lined with fluffy wool, Astalor had bought a pair for them all, and Rommath had worn them every winter since.) He set those aside.

He had no need of his student robes, embroidered in golden thread with the Kirin Tor insignia. Even the silks, which would undoubtedly suit the climate of his home, he put aside. He would exchange his Kirin Tor violet for the crimson of Silvermoon soon enough. 

His books filled a separate trunk. He parted with none. Even his student notebooks, scribbles in the cramped hand of an eager mage, complicated alchemical formulae and calculations crossed out and rewritten, spells reworked, notations jotted in every margin. Rommath didn’t believe in discarding books. 

Assorted trinkets and mementos lay among the plush carpeting and he stared at them, heart heavy. Nothing was without the memory of Kael. 

A comically large tankard, which now held quills, from their first Brewfest in Dalaran. Brewfest in Quel’Thalas was a small holiday, a night to drink and promote good, local vintages; but in Dalaran, Brewfest lasted an entire fortnight. Colorful banners hung outside the city’s taverns, and dwarves from all over the Eastern Kingdoms competed in largescale drinking contests, arguing over the best beers, the largest stomachs, and fairest prices. That was the year Rommath had sworn off Brewfest and the year Kael drank himself so sick he sobbed in Rommath’s lap until dawn. 

(Kael dragged Rommath out for Brewfest every year, and if he remembered that wild night so long ago, he kept it to himself.)

An old silken hair ribbon, borrowed from Kael. Rommath had tied his hair with crimson silk that night, his robes a deep bloodvine red. His prince had frowned, and produced from his own vanity table a length of gold. _It would look better to match the embroidery,_ he said, laying the ribbon against Rommath’s chest to check the color. _Wear this one._ Kael had never asked for the ribbon back, and Rommath had never volunteered it. He had kept it, tucked carefully away among his things. It made him smile, made him think of the gold of Kael’s hair.

A broken quill, the feathers sticking out in the wrong direction, the nib long since drained of ink. His first failed attempt at buying his own things, like a commoner. Kael had laughed at him, had pointed out the inferior slit and cut. _It’s no wonder you’ve ink all over yourself,_ he’d chuckled. _It hasn’t been prepared properly. Let me buy your quills. You’ve obviously no idea what you’re looking for._ Kael had laughed all the way to the shopping district, returning with a beautiful set of crow feather quills, and he had bought every quill since. _You’ll only buy something ratty, dear Rommath._

(He had never been able to throw away the broken quill. He had tried, many times － it was broken, ruined, and held no ink － but whenever he picked up the quill, he saw ink-stained fingers and a slender hand over his own, the heat rising in his cheeks at their proximity.)

A prototype he had crafted of an arcane humanoid, the crystal at its center serving as its power source. His prototype used only colored glass, of a shade Rommath refused to admit was the same as Kael’s own. He had written an entire thesis on this arcane prototype, pulling long nights and drawing on gnommish technology for inspiration. His passion for the project had forced Kael to buckle down, and when he had presented the prototype to Telestra, Kael had watched, smirking. 

(Kael knew the words just as well as he. By the time Rommath had submitted his thesis, he had practiced his presentation so often the prince could － and had － recite it in his sleep.)

These things and others were carefully wrapped in paper and rolled into a spare blanket, pressed delicately along the side of his trunk. He shut the lid, flipped the latches. His room, his apartments, felt so empty without his things. He sighed. Bent over the trunk and shut his eyes. 

Rommath did not _want_ to leave. Most of all, he did not want to leave Kael.

* * *

“What’s this?”

It surprised him not at all that Kael had found his way one last time into Rommath’s apartments. Whenever he so much as thought of Kael, there he was. 

He would have to get used to Kael not coming at his unbidden call.

Rommath looked over his shoulder. “Has it ever occurred to you to knock?” 

“No.” Kael stood in his living room, looking around in confusion at the bare walls. The books had been swept from the shelves, the dissertation he’d been working on carefully put away. “Were you going somewhere, Rommath?”

Rommath allowed himself a moment longer on the floor. _I cannot be here,_ he thought. _I cannot watch this garish display you’ve put on with Neeluu, and worse, I cannot bear to watch you fall in love with her. I can’t. My heart will break, Kael._ He told Kael none of these things. He did not say how it pained him to see Kael with Neeluu. To see him lean close and whisper in her ear, and how badly he wished that it were his ear instead. How he ached for Kael’s hand to tangle in his hair, not Neeluu’s; for Kael’s gaze to alight on him, and not her. He could not tell his prince of his jealousy. That the emerald on Neeluu’s finger inspired envy and anger, and it was his doing, yes, but he was angry at her for receiving it, and if he did not leave, he feared his anger would turn to hatred seething deep within his belly. Hatred that she would marry Kael and bed him and live long by his side, everything that Rommath so badly, for so long had wished to do himself. He could not stand by and watch his prince flaunt his engagement before Jaina Proudmoore and the world, and he could not articulate the splintering in his heart at the thought that Kael may someday, truly, turn his affections from Jaina to Neeluu, and not to him.

Never to him. 

_I love you._

“Rommath?”

_I love you so much I cannot bear it._

“Yes?” His voice was choked.

_I love you so much I cannot even watch you claim happiness for yourself._

Kael entered the room, confusion written across his features. “Where are all your things?”

_I am a terrible friend._

He sat up. Breathed deeply. 

_I must leave, before I break my own heart for wanting what was never mine._

“I have been summoned to Silvermoon.” He spoke quietly, and his voice did not crack. 

“What?” Kael dropped to his knees beside him. “What do you mean?”

Rommath stared ahead, at a point just under his windowsill. It was a large windowsill, and he had more than once curled up on it, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and watched the stars. 

“Belo’vir wishes me to train as his new apprentice. I begin immediately.”

Kael’s nostrils flared. His brow furrowed. “How long have you known?” he demanded. “Were you even going to tell me?”

_No._

(He was a coward.)

“Yes.” 

His lips pressed into a thin line. Rommath thought traitorously of leaning over, of pressing his lips to those lips, those beautiful lips which in his dreams kissed him so tenderly. He would tell Kael all of it － his jealousy, his anger, his despair, and Kael would hold him and kiss him and whisper _dalah’arifal,_ and Rommath would melt into his embrace and murmur _I have always loved you. From that very first day. Do you remember?_

But he didn’t.

(He had always been a coward.)

Kael’s hand shot out and clapped his shoulder. “I will speak to my father,” he declared. “I will have him convince Belo’vir you are not yet ready for… for…” He faltered at the look on Rommath’s face. 

“We cannot stay in Dalaran forever, Kael,” he murmured with a shake of his head. “We have to go home eventually.”

( _Eventually_ meant betrothals and marriage and his mother had given him a chance and he had _wasted it, wasted it,_ because of his stupid heart.)

“But your work!” his prince protested. 

“My work has always been in service of you and your father.” The half truth was easier to speak than a lie. “One day Belo’vir will be gone and your father with him, and you will need a competent Grand Magister.” He forced a smirk onto his face. It felt carved in. “You will need me, and I intend to be ready.”

(How badly he wished Kael needed him now, this very moment.)

And Kael laughed, but it was without mirth. “Rommath,” he said, “you can’t leave.”

_I’m sorry I’m sorry I’msorryimsorryimsorryimsorry…_

“I have to.” His eyes burned. 

Kael looked at him, his eyes wider and bluer than before, and the hand on his shoulder was tight. “Rommath…” And when he spoke, his voice wobbled. “What am I going to do without you?”

(His heart stopped and time stopped and for this one long, aching, beautiful moment, they were the only two people in the world.)

Rommath stared at him, at the tears gathering on his lashes. And Kael bit his lip, his beautiful lip, and Rommath’s eyes fixated on it. How easy would it be, to pull Kael to him? To confess his love and anguish and press their lips together? To hold Kael in his arms and never, ever let him go?

_Please say it, so I don’t have to._

But Kael said nothing. He said nothing, and using only the hand that gripped his shoulder, he pulled Rommath to him in an embrace so fierce it knocked all the air from his lungs. And Kael held him tightly, his back ramrod straight and muscles tense, his chin digging into Rommath’s shoulder, and whispered again, “What will I do without you?”

And it wasn’t what Rommath wanted, not what he longed for. Not what he dreamt of late at night, his hand wrapped around himself and his breathing uneven. But it was _enough,_ and he allowed himself to lean into his prince, allowed this one weakness. He let his arms encircle Kael and buried his face in the clean smells of sunlight and arcane in his hair. 

“You will do what you have always done,” Rommath murmured. “I am not dying, Kael. Just in Silvermoon.”

And Kael made a noise that was something of a laugh and somewhat a sob and sucked in a shaky breath. “And you’ll cry the entire first month away.”

_I will._

“I don’t cry.” The tears in his eyes were from the perfume in Kael’s soap, he told himself.

Kael hiccuped into his shoulder. “You may not,” he mumbled, “but I very well may.”

(His heart hurt and the tears he was not shedding were falling into Kael’s hair.)

“When do you leave?” Kael whispered. 

Rommath squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t _want_ to leave, but he had created this mess and could watch it unfold no longer. “Tomorrow.” 

Kael reeled back. (Rommath felt the loss of him against his chest like a phantom limb.) “Tomorrow?!”

And Rommath reached for him － his arm caught Kael’s wrist as his prince shot up, and his whole body tingled at the feeling of bare skin. “Don’t.” 

“Rommath, we have to －”

“Don’t,” he repeated softly. “I don’t… I’m not good with goodbyes.” He did not want his last night in Dalaran, his last night with _Kael,_ to be a hazy memory of alcohol and drinking games with their friends. He did not want to see Telonicus disappear with Capernian, or Astalor’s sweet friendly face or Neeluu’s bright, beaming smile. He only wanted to see Kael.

“Please, stay with me.” 

And Kael, his light, his fire, looked at him with watery eyes and nodded. “We could play chess?” he suggested weakly. 

“I’d like that.” 

“At my place,” he offered. “I’m sure… I’m sure you’ve already packed your board.”

He helped Rommath up, and Rommath let go of his wrist, and together they trekked quietly out of the apartment, out of the Silver Enclave and down the street to Kael’s townhome. Kael bumped Rommath’s shoulder and Rommath shoved him, and by the time they’d set up the chess board, they had dissolved into giggles. 

Rommath told himself he would not miss this. In the light of his prince, he was strong and capable and sound.

(And yet his chest constricted and his eyes burned when he left. He told himself he was fine.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even kidding. Fairshaw excitement made me do this. Maybe one day I will write Fairshaw... I mean, aren't Rommath and Kael a bit like our spymaster and former pirate?


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rommath receives some visitors while bed bound.

Dar’Khan was dead. One of his own magisters had struck the killing blow. Rommath took a bit of pride in that, that it was one of his men. He supposed he’d have to promote the man. The magister, with a contingent of blood knights, had gone to the Undercity to present Dar’Khan’s head to Sylvanas. With a selection of dark rangers joining them, they were now sailing for Kalimdor, for the desert city of the orcs. 

That was all he’d been able to pry from anyone. Lor’themar, Astalor － they all seemed under the impression that Rommath was somehow now fragile, that he needn’t be bothered with the day to day workings of his own job. When he’d asked for news of the battle, Lor’themar had told him that they’d won, and to go back to sleep. Rommath had been sleeping for over four weeks. He didn’t need any more.

(He did. He could feel it in his bones, but he would be damned if he napped in bed like a child while the rest of them were running themselves ragged.)

His apprentice was no more forthcoming. Head of the Royal Academy and the Magisterium in his absence, she saw him no more than was strictly necessary, meaning that Rommath had not seen her at all. If there were a problem, he knew, she would poke her head in his room and divulge, but it bothered him to sit still in bed all day. That wasn’t the type of man he was.

“You need rest,” Kath’mar told him, as he helped him into a sitting position. Rommath braced himself for the sting of peeled bandages. “Erindae has assured the Regent Lord that all is running smoothly, so why trouble yourself with it?” He ignored the magister’s hiss of pain as he carefully separated linen from skin. Blood magic made clean wounds, but those wounds were difficult to close and oozed as the magic died. They weren’t wounds that were necessarily meant to heal. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” was Rommath’s reply. He set his jaw and tried to breathe through his nose. 

“Oh don’t start,” the High Priest muttered absent-mindedly. His eyes roved the marks, looking for infection and corruption. He touched a splotch of angry red skin experimentally.

“ _Must_ you?” Rommath growled. Over the course of his life, he had burned himself more times than he could count, a necessary consequence of being a mage proficient in fire. The healing skin of his abdomen felt like a series of horrible burns, tight and angry and blistering. 

Kath’mar frowned. Placed both hands on Rommath’s chest. Called forth the Light. “Yes.” 

The Light soothed the pain some, as Light was wont to do. He was still too warm, but the Light eased the tension from his muscles, loosened the tightness of the scabbing skin. It took the fury from his skin, leaving it a pale, shiny pink. 

Whatever the High Priest’s feelings for him, he was a damn good healer. Perhaps no one else save his sister could have kept him alive after… 

“Ointment now,” Kath’mar warned. The Light had faded, and in its place a moment later was the cool spread of cream, fresh and sweet-smelling. The priest’s fingers were light on his wounds, touching only enough to smear the ointment evenly. Some of his medicines were imported, Rommath knew, mixed special for the colossal task of saving the Grand Magister. He himself had always been proficient in alchemy, but even he didn’t know the names of all the reagents that had been sacrificed to make him well again. 

And then came the bandages, these made of plain linen. He’d been told that, when he’d first arrived, Kath’mar had had to wrap him in enchanted cloth to stop the bleeding, magic woven into the very fibers to soothe the damage. Rommath had never seen them. He had been asleep over a month, and when he’d finally woken, Kath’mar had stopped using them. 

“I want to sleep in my own bed,” Rommath grumbled, finally able to lean back again. Kath’mar busied himself with cleaning his hands in a nearby basin.

“And I want to return to the Chapel and my students,” the priest said. “They make finer company than you.” Rommath scowled. 

“I’m no more enamored with you than you with me, priest.” He winced as he adjusted the bed covers. “I can easily care for myself in my own home.”

Kath’mar snorted. He knew it irritated the mage. “I’m sure.” He threw the soiled bandages into the basin for washing and secreted the remainder of the ointment back into a cupboard. “Perhaps if you could piss on your own, I would consider it.” 

Rommath’s scowl deepened. Even for the simplest of tasks he needed aid. It pained him more than his actual wounds. “You may leave now.”

“You can’t order me from my own infirmary,” Kath’mar hummed. The priest took far too much pleasure in their temporary power shift. In Rommath’s helplessness. Just to spite him, he spent several minutes needlessly arranging vials and jars. Rommath grit his teeth. He heard soft footsteps echoing in the quiet of the room, and then his door opened. 

“Rommath, you’re awake.” Astalor smiled warmly, trying his best to hide the worry in his eyes. 

“Yes. The High Priest has not yet seen fit to render me unconscious,” Rommath griped.

“If I have to sedate you to keep you in bed, I shall,” Kath’mar remarked. He had not been pleased the first time he’d found Rommath struggling to stand. 

(Rommath had not been pleased with himself either, all things considered. The pain had been so terrible he’d nearly been sick.)

Astalor frowned. “Perhaps it would be good to get out of bed,” he murmured. “Nothing strenuous, of course. Would a chair by the window suffice, Rommath?”

“I will happily stay in bed and _rest_ if I had some work to do,” Rommath complained. “One can only sleep so much.” His friend sighed. 

“You don’t know the meaning of the word _rest,_ ” Astalor lamented. “You never have.” 

“Someone has to keep the city running.”

“Lor’themar is doing a fine job, and you have trained Erindae well.” Astalor sat himself down beside Rommath’s bed. “I have been checking in, you know. Just for your peace of mind.”

Rommath pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation. “I would rather she check in,” he grumbled. 

“Misery slows the healing process,” Kath’mar quipped. He nodded at Astalor before slipping out quietly. 

“That’s true,” Astalor said when he’d gone. 

“Oh shut up.” He would cross his arms if it wouldn’t hurt. Instead, he settled for glaring in the direction of his window. 

“Maybe Kim’alah should pay you a visit?” his friend suggested. “Stroking a cat is supposed to be good for the heart.”

(Kim’alah was not allowed in the infirmary, according to Kath’mar. He still found her curled up in Rommath’s bed every morning, her tail over her nose.)

“Go find her then.” Rommath was always in a foul mood after his dressing had been changed, or after anyone helped him at all. Astalor bore it well.

“Rommath.”

“What?”

After a moment of silence, he tore his eyes away from the window. Astalor was watching him somberly. 

“What?” he said again. Astalor took a deep breath, his eyebrows knitting together. 

“If you ever do that again,” he started, “that… _blood magic…_ I will kill you myself.” And Rommath had wondered how long it would be before they would talk about it. Before Astalor let him see his anger. “I mean it, Rommath.”

“Plenty of mages use blood magic,” Rommath scoffed. “Why, we won the Troll Wars with－”

“I don’t care about the Troll Wars!” And Astalor’s eyes widened at his sudden outburst, but he kept on. “I don’t care about other mages! Rommath, you nearly died! You idiot, do you understand that?”

He frowned. Of course he did. But when he opened his mouth to speak, Astalor was faster.

“It’s dangerous,” his friend fumed. “Especially the way _you_ use it. Rommath, there’s been something _wrong_ with you, for months, ever since K－”

“Do _not_ ,” Rommath warned, but Astalor, bold, emotional Astalor, pressed on.

“Ever since _Kael died.”_ He let the words hang there, and Rommath swore he could see them, burning between them. “Ever since _Auriel_ died.” 

He couldn’t meet Astalor’s eyes. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Well I do!” Astalor laid a hand on his arm. “Rommath… Please, if not for yourself, live for Auriel. Live the life she gave her own for.” 

(A dream half remembered floated to the forefront of his mind. A woman with an angel’s wings and his sister’s face. _Do you wish to move on?_ she’d asked. _I’m glad,_ she’d said, and then he was waking, waking, waking…)

“Rommath.” And there was Astalor again, his face swimming before Rommath’s eyes, and Rommath realized that his eyes were full of tears. And his chest hurt with a different kind of pain, a deep, gnawing ache, and he pressed a hand to his eyes so Astalor wouldn’t see. 

His sister had not given her life for Rommath to so carelessly throw his away. She hadn’t died for him to join her. And Kael… Kael was not waiting for him. Auriel and Kael were dead, and they’d taken the best parts of him with them, but he was still alive. Even if what he’d done had been in the name of the greater good, he had been _reckless_ and _stupid._

Auriel would be furious with him. And Kael… Kael, who had been so full of life and fire… Kael would be ashamed. Rommath’s face burned. 

Astalor sat with him, the hand on his arm a constant lifeline in Rommath’s sea of anguish. Why was he still here? Hadn’t he learned that Rommath would push and push and push until he’d surrounded himself not with people but shadows and spectres? Didn’t he understand?

(He didn’t deserve Astalor Bloodsworn. He never had.)

His friend bent over him, his arms were heavy and strong, and Rommath let himself be held even as he hid his face, because in the end, Astalor Bloodsworn had always been a better person than he. What Rommath had been unable to offer in the face of Auriel’s death, Astalor gave freely and without judgement. Astalor had never forgotten what it was to love another, and he knew intimately his friend’s unspoken words. Astalor loved him, and his own undoing would be forgetting that. 

* * *

“If I may be permitted, Grand Magister,” Erindae said crossly, “I must tell you that you were a fool.”

Rommath rolled his eyes. “So I’ve been told.” He shuffled the paperwork she had brought. “However, I would like to remind you: No one else knew to look for the conduit. Without me, we all would have perished.”

“Spare me.” 

“You had best harness that attitude, Erindae,” he warned. “I will be back to my work shortly enough.” 

(It seemed everyone had a thing or two to say when he was stuck in infirmary.)

His apprentice gave him a look that said plainly she doubted that. But she said nothing. 

“Is this all?” He tapped the papers.

“All the Regent Lord wishes you know for now.” Her voice had softened. “Umbric and a small team have stayed behind in Deatholme to deconstruct the wards－”

“Umbric?” Rommath asked sharply, eyebrow raised.

“He was part of the group that stormed the ziggurat, from my understanding.”

“I see.” He supposed he would have to reinstate the man back into the Magisterium for that then. 

“The Blood Matriarch and Ranger General have stayed behind as well,” she continued. “And I have authorized a group from the West Sanctum to depart for the area next week, to conduct research on the Scar.”

Rommath sighed. He supposed it would have to do. He leafed through the papers. A field report from one of Umbric’s mages. Another from Halduron. A list of odd artifacts and reagents to be carted back to Silvermoon. Nothing that required any real attention from him. Likely these were things Lor’themar had decided would keep him from rioting. _Best not to keep him in the dark,_ he imagined the man saying. 

“Surely there are meetings,” he pressed. “My schedule?”

“I have managed thus far,” his apprentice told him firmly, “and I will manage until you return in full health.”

She would make a fine Grand Magister, when his time finally came.

“Shall I send for your lunch, sir?” It was not a question. She had decided that they were through speaking of this. He felt a stirring of pride; he had trained her well. 

“Very well.” He settled back against his pillows. “Coffee too, if you would.” 

She nodded, gave a small bow. Saw herself out. 

Rommath sighed. He had never felt so helpless. 

(He had never felt so _cared for._ When he had been younger, his mother would often sit with him when he fell ill, humming softly while working some sort of embroidery or reading. It had been a soft, quiet sort of time, and something he had never truly appreciated. He missed his mother, in that moment. She would never have allowed him to read Erindae’s reports. Smiling wryly, he set them on his bedside table. He would attend to them later.)

He woke to the sounds of clinking, to the sound of something heavy sliding across wood. He blinked his eyes open. When had he fallen asleep? (Probably something in the medicines Kath’mar administered. He was unaccustomed to simply _giving in_ when he tired.) Drowsily, he turned towards the noise. 

“Well good morning,” Neeluu said softly. 

“It’s afternoon,” he grumbled. He struggled for a moment against the fingers of sleep, and then against his sore muscles to sit up. Neeluu helped him, her body warm against his own. 

“Feeling better?” she chirped.

“Mm.” He no longer ached for the kiss of death, at least. He focused on the tray on his bedside table, grounding himself. “You brought my lunch?”

“I passed the tray on my way up,” she offered off-handedly. “Would you like it now?”

Rommath frowned. Something nagged at him, but he could not put his finger on what it was. “Just the coffee, please.” He watched as she poured him a cup, could smell the rich aroma. She passed it to him black.

“Thank you.”

She beamed. “Of course.” Neeluu settled herself in the chair permanently placed at his bedside. They fell into a comfortable silence as he sipped, the liquid hot against his tongue. 

It struck him then that she was dressed simply, her robes a gentle green. Not Silvermoon crimson. Rommath wasn’t sure why that bothered him so. 

“Shouldn’t you be on Quel’Danas?” he asked. “Your Dawnblades must need you.”

“Perhaps.” She faced him, but her eyes did not quite meet his. “But it has been some time since they’ve returned, and I’ve seen to their injuries.”

“Ah.” Her robes were embroidered with white and gold at the cuffs and collar. A pendant, fashioned in the sigil of her House, gleamed at her throat. 

“Would you like me to leave?” she asked. 

“No.” The word came easily, and far more quickly than he expected. “No,” he said again. “I enjoy your company. Stay.”

And he did. Neeluu often left him to himself, let him mull quietly over the thoughts he could give no voice to while she read or did paperwork. She listened to his grumbles with a smile, did not quash his feelings of agitation or pain. And when Kath’mar or his assistants came, as they so often did, she did not shy away from his naked chest, from his awful wounds, as a lady of her station might; merely rolled up her sleeves and provided a hand to hold as he hissed, her fingers cool in his. 

“It’s very warm today,” she remarked. “I hope you’re not uncomfortable.” She looked towards the window, debating if she should open it. 

“No moreso than usual.” And she laughed. 

“The High Priest has been keeping me in the loop,” she confided. “He hopes you to be well enough to leave within the next few weeks.”

“He is tired of me,” Rommath commented. “And I of him. I want nothing more than to return to my own home. Sleep in my own bed. I do not require his help as often as I did.”

“Oh, I sort of enjoy you in the infirmary,” Neeluu teased. “I can visit you as often as I like.” Her cheeks flushed.

(It would be improper for her to step into the privacy of his home.)

“I would not mind－” He stopped. Made himself put his lips to his cup, and drink. Started again. “You shall see plenty of me once I am back in office.” 

(No matter their friendship, it would be inappropriate for her to visit his home. People would talk. Wasn’t that why Liadrin and Lor’themar kept separate quarters?)

“Yes.” Her eyes fell. “I expect you’ll be back in short order.” She smiled, soft and sweet. “I’ve heard you’re doing quite well.”

“Kath’mar still won’t let me out of bed,” Rommath complained. He felt odd, hearing that Neeluu spoke to the priest about him. 

“He’s being cautious,” she soothed. “You were very severely injured.”

(Sometimes he thought he’d died, back in Deatholme. Maybe he had. Perhaps that explained the odd things he dreamed.)

“Mm.” 

Neeluu bit her lip. Folded her hands in her lap. She didn’t speak for a long time. 

“I think…” She didn’t look at him. “Rommath.”

He was patient. She had always been patient with him.

“I think perhaps, if Astalor… If he had not thought of the Sunwell…” Her green eyes grew wide and damp. “I don’t know if you would be here.”

 _The Sunwell._ The warm, wet feeling on his skin, the ache ebbing from his muscles. He had woken from his month long sleep to Neeluu washing his wounds with its holy waters, her face pale and tense, her hand pressed gently to his bare chest. _“I’m so glad you’re back…”_ she’d breathed.

(The font’s waters should never leave the Well. It was taboo. It was possibly illegal. And yet… Neeluu had brought a vial to Silvermoon, to him. Quickly, and without question. He didn’t know what to think.)

He reached for her, his hand falling gently atop both her own. “Neeluu.” She looked at him, startled and sad. “ _Thank you.”_ He had once wished to bathe in the waters of the Sunwell; he had never thought he one day would. 

“W-what?” 

“I would have died,” he said gently, “and thanks to you, I am alive.” 

(The dream passed through his mind once more. _“Would you like to move on?”_ asked the angel who had so resembled his sister. _“No,”_ he’d told her. He’d seen through the grey of that strange place, saw the faint outlines of Astalor and Neeluu… _“No,”_ he’d said firmly. _“I’m glad,”_ said the angel, and then he was screaming and awake, awake, awake…)

“S-surely it was not my doing,” Neeluu protested. “The priests… they worked so－”

“You gave me the Well’s waters.” He closed his eyes, remembering the feeling, the Light and arcane soaking into his skin, returning strength where before it had bled out. 

(Would Kael have done that? Would Kael have allowed their most sacred taboo broken for him?)

Neeluu’s eyes were watery, her face pink about the cheeks and ears. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t let you die…”

(Had she asked permission? Or did her authority supercede Lor’themar’s own? Had Lor’themar even known?)

Rommath laughed, just a small huff. “Many would have.” He ran his thumb over her knuckles. 

Neeluu frowned. “I should think public opinion has changed,” she said heatedly. “No traitor would sacrifice himself as you did.”

(Perhaps he had done it to prove he wasn’t. A dual purpose sacrifice.)

He smiled. Just a small one, just for her. “I don’t deserve someone as kindhearted as you,” he murmured. 

(He really didn’t. Someone as selfish and angry and full of himself as he did not deserve the friendship of someone so selfless and warm and noble…)

Neeluu flushed, her whole face radiating a heat Rommath could feel from his bed. He suddenly wished for his cowl, his face obscured.

His door banged open, hitting the wall hard enough to cause them both alarm. Rommath withdrew his hand. 

“You’re awake!” Halduron boomed. He was dirty, a twig in his hair sticking out at an odd angle, his smile wide enough to split his face in two. “I begged a mage for a portal as soon as I heard!”

“Don’t shout,” said Liadrin, close on his heels. “This is a sick room.”

“He’s awake!” Halduron protested. Neeluu let out a shaky laugh and the ranger’s gaze shot to her. His eyes widened in understanding (though what he understood, Rommath didn’t know). “We should come back,” he said quickly.

“Nonsense. We’ve come all this way.” Halduron shot Liadrin a look, but she ignored him. 

Neeluu stood. “Don’t be silly, Halduron. I’ll let you two visit.”

“You don’t need to leave,” Liadrin told her. Neeluu shook her head. 

“I must attend to a matter,” she demurred. She addressed Rommath next, her skin still red. “Be sure to eat. I know how you are.”

“I eat,” Rommath protested. But he slid the tray from the table with her help, settled it on his lap. Watched her glide out. 

Halduron was glaring. “Liadrin, we interrupted.”

Liadrin blinked. Confused, her gaze landed on Rommath. “You interrupted nothing,” he grumbled, looking down at his food. His face felt hot. He saw the ranger elbow Liadrin, saw him grin.

“Tell me news of Deatholme,” he demanded. 

* * *

That night Rommath dreamed. 

He dreamt of his sister, _her kind face and easy grin. He dreamt of her wedding to Astalor, the sun high in the sky and the birds singing sweetly. Auriel, dressed in gold, her hair piled high on her head and decorated with orange blossoms, leaning on his arm as he stood before the priest and his friend. The feel of her hand as he slipped it from his, as he placed it in Astalor’s. Their hands wrapped in cloth of gold and the shine in their eyes as they recited the ancient words. And Rommath, despite himself, felt his chest tighten. Took an involuntary deep breath to counteract the lump in his throat._

_He heard music, not from the choir of Silvermoon or any acclaimed talent, but the simple country sounds of local musicians. He watched Astalor and his sister with an ache deep in his heart. To have the love that they had… The way Astalor looked at her was so smitten, so intense that Rommath had to look away._

_Others had joined in the dancing. Aethas, his red hair gleaming in the sunlight, with Kelantir Bloodblade; and Lor’themar, his smile devious as he led a protesting Liadrin to the floor. Liadrin’s facade dissipating as she allowed herself to sink against him. It was the first time Rommath had seen her out of her armor since she’d forsaken the Light._

_And Kael, muted against the rest, not wanting to steal the spotlight from the happy couple but still shining the brightest in Rommath’s eyes. Light, he was beautiful, his laugh infectious, and he was taking Rommath’s hand as Rommath had taken Astalor’s, and placing Neeluu’s into it._

_“Come now, Rommath, don’t be such a stick in the mud,” he’d chuckled. “Go and dance.”_

_“No,” Rommath protested, but Kael’s hand around his and Neeluu’s was firm. “I don’t need to steal your dance partner.”_

_And Neeluu laughed, her free hand slipping up to cover her ruby lips. “You’re not stealing me, Rommath.”_

_“You deserve to be happy too,” Kael insisted, giving him a little shove. “Now stop sulking and enjoy yourself.”_

_“I’m not sulking.” But Rommath led Neeluu to the floor all the same, rolling his eyes in Kael’s direction. Her slender hand was soft and her body pressed against his was warm and lithe, and when she peered up at him beneath her lashes, he nearly looked away._

_He held her primly, appropriately, but her dress was cut away at the back and his fingers felt her bare skin, so smooth against his own. She wore emerald earrings; they glinted in the light, made her eyes look greener than they were. Neeluu leaned into him, her head on his shoulder, and everything melted away. There was no Kael, no Auriel, no Astalor. He laid his head against Neeluu’s, closed his eyes as the gentle smell of her perfume enveloped them. He felt her lips part against his shoulder, the soft vibration of her throat as she spoke._

_“You deserve to be happy too,” she said. A hand slid to cup his cheek, to turn his gaze slowly to meet hers. “You do know that, right?”_

_By the Sunwell, he wanted to be happy. He wanted what Astalor and Auriel had found. Kael would never, could never give him that._

_“What would make you happy, Rommath?” Her voice was soft, her lips so close… Had this happened at the wedding? Had she always stood so close to him?_

_Had he always felt this warm inside? He felt submerged in the Sunwell’s healing waters, and his chest no longer ached. His hand splayed over her lower back, drawing her closer. He spared a thought for Kael, but Kael had given her to him after all. And Kael… Neeluu would love him as Kael never had…_

_He bent his head and captured her lips, and she had been expecting it, let slip a soft noise that was not surprise. And her arms went around him, and his hand tangled in her dark hair, and he smiled against her mouth…_

And woke up. The moonlight streamed into his room, illuminating vials and flasks stowed carefully away along the countertops and cabinets. Kim’alah was asleep, stretched out along one of his legs, her little grey feet with their pink paw pads sticking straight out. 

Rommath breathed deeply. He had not… had never entertained the thought… And yet. If she were not the Light of Dawn, would he have? If she were not the Warden now, would he…? 

She had kissed him, after all, before he’d gone to Deatholme. 

He laid back against his pillows and scrubbed a hand over his face. It was late. He was tired. He had not the energy. It was only a dream. 

It was only a dream and it had not been real, and he did not want to think about it anymore. Kim’alah made a noise as he moved his leg, rolling over to rest her face against him through the sheet. He deserved Kim’alah even less than he deserved Neeluu, he thought. 

“You’re a good girl,” he told her drowsily, as his eyes closed again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like elves would wear gold for weddings. The practice of wrapping the couple's hands at the altar is a real one, and I've always thought it romantic and cute, so I headcanon that elves do that too.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rommath is finally allowed to go home and he is still our favorite grumpy mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys it's only been like... eight months? Ten? Since Kael died. (In this universe.) I keep forgetting. Pacing, bideru, pacing!
> 
> Also: This chapter was difficult to write for the sole reason that it contains talk of foreign languages and language/linguistics is my JAM. Very difficult not to get technical.

There was a certain delight to be found in sitting － properly sitting, not reclining － in a chair, leafing through the latest reports. At first the walk to the window had been painful and tiring, his heart pumping hard at the exertion, but as the days turned into weeks it became easier. His wounds had finally closed, the skin stretched taut over deep gouges, but it was a precarious sort of closure, and still every day Kath’mar worked his abdomen with the Light. The burns he had sustained upon arrival were gone, and even the scars had been magicked away by Kath’mar’s skilled fingers. 

“You’re lucky, Grand Magister,” Kath’mar had told him. “This one here－” the priest traced an angry puncture with one glowing finger “－had it been but a smidge deeper, would have pierced your heart.” 

(Rommath didn’t know what a smidge was, but he understood the meaning clear enough.)

He sat in his chair and read his reports, and counted down the moments until Kath’mar’s power over him waned. Until he could return home, and people stopped barging in at every moment of every day. No one would dare enter his home like he did his sick room.

“You’ve much improved,” Lor’themar said appraisingly. Rommath made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. “You have. When I last saw you, simple exertion rendered you breathless, and now look at you.” He kept a wary eye on Rommath as the mage carefully lowered himself into the winged chair he’d ordered brought in. (The one at his bedside was uncomfortable and hurt his back. Kath’mar had rolled his eyes at the demand and sent his assistant off to “fetch something more to the Grand Magister’s tastes.”) 

“Mm. I’m － a Lightdamned － marvel,” Rommath grunted. A month in bed had rendered him stiff, made it difficult at times to move. He tried to stretch his legs every day, but often it took long periods before he could raise himself again. His legs had grown unused to bearing weight. He let out a long breath as his backside found the cushion, let himself sink into it. 

“I’ve been disemboweled, Rommath,” Lor’themar reminded him. “I know what it’s like to recover from serious injury.”

(The man considered a troll’s hand in his gut a serious injury but not his own eye ripped from his face. Rommath would never understand rangers.)

“And like you, I hated every moment I was made to lay down and do nothing,” he continued, his tone sympathetic. “You and I, we were made for action.”

It had been Lor’themar who’d ordered the handling of his work to Erindae Firestriker, but little by little, he had eased, and more of his day to day work found itself back into his hands. It was easier to heal when he could keep his mind occupied, and his apprentice had plied him with reports and theses and research to look over while he’d been bedridden. (Some of his magisters truly astounded him with their stupidity, but a few were immensely bright. When his apprentice came by in the evenings, he earmarked those papers he had taken special interest in. When he was back on form, he would speak to their authors about their projects and hypotheses in greater detail.)

He swept his hand at the stack of papers his apprentice had left this morning. “I’ve found ways to keep myself occupied.” And Lor’themar chuckled.

“You would conduct meetings here if I let you,” he teased.

“Of course I would. You can’t possibly expect me to let you do everything yourself.” It had not been so long ago that Rommath considered the man to be incapable of dressing himself in the morning. (Some days he did still wonder.)

“I can’t wait to have you back,” Lor’themar told him. “Your apprentice is quite capable, but she is no you.” Rommath supposed, in his absence, the ranger had finally realized just how much of the country’s burden he shouldered. Surely Erindae couldn’t handle it all. And who had been tending to the sanctum cats?

(Halduron, most likely.)

“Tell your High Priest to release me,” Rommath snapped, earning himself another laugh.

“I am no healer. I trust Kath’mar’s judgement.” 

Rommath scowled. Lor’themar grinned. 

“Remind me how you convinced him to let you in again?” Rommath groused. (Kath’mar had banned Lor’themar from the infirmary while Rommath had slept. Apparently, he had been “in the way” and “providing asinine suggestions.”) 

“You know…” Lor’themar considered for a moment. “I don’t think he ever agreed to it.” He laughed again. 

“Perhaps I shall tell him you are harassing me.”

“I think you like the company,” the Regent Lord teased. “I should bring Salandria next time. She has been most worried for you.”

“I suppose now that I’m no longer bleeding everywhere, it wouldn’t be the most terrible idea you’ve ever had.” He liked the little girl well enough. She reminded him of a time long ago, when he and his siblings had been young. 

(The relationship between Lor’themar and Salandria confused him. Rommath didn’t think it wise to ask; Lor’themar had never been very forthcoming as to his private life. He had inferred, however, that Liadrin’s girl was staying with him while her mother was in the south.)

“I hope you don’t expect me to babysit,” he said sharply.

“She will be well behaved,” Lor’themar swore. 

“Better than Brightwing?”

A grin. “I do believe anyone to be better behaved than Halduron.” They shared a chuckle at that. 

“And speaking of Halduron,” Lor’themar began, “he’s let slip a bit of interesting news recently.”

“Oh?” Rommath leaned forward, eyes bright. Something about the ziggurat maybe, or perhaps he’d recovered a piece of the crystal orb Rommath had destroyed. 

“Mm.” The ranger seemed to be trying to contain a smile, and that more than anything gave it away.

Oh.  _ Oh. _

Motherfucker.

He sat back and frowned. “Brightwing is an idiot,” he snapped. “He sees what he wants to see.”

“Halduron  _ is _ a bit of a romantic,” Lor’themar admitted. (Halduron Brightwing, a _romantic_? Rommath doubted it.) “But perhaps it is not only wishful thinking on his part?”

“I am recovering from near death, Lor’themar.” He pronounced each word distinctly. “I should think I am rather preoccupied for the foreseeable future.”

(He did not want to think of Neeluu, of her soft smile and gentle eyes. He did not want to think of the look on her face as he'd awoken with her sun-drenched hand on his chest, the terror and relief; or the wobble in her voice as she whispered, _I couldn't... I couldn't let you die..._ )

Lor’themar looked around at the empty sick room, and back to Rommath. He (wisely) said nothing.

Rommath scowled, willing his and Lor'themar's thoughts to somewhere more appropriate. “And after I return to office, there is the matter of the Horde. Or have you forgotten?”

“No,” Lor’themar said. “But I hardly think you need to trouble yourself with future matters at this time.”

“Don’t be stupid. With only Brightwing, you’ll bring the wrath of the orcs upon us!” Rommath clenched his fist. “They’d soon ally with the Amani and where would we be?”

Lor’themar laughed. He must have been taking great amusement in Rommath’s suffering. “I’m well aware of your opinion of us simple rangers,” he chuckled. “Rest assured, I swear to you I will not take only Halduron to meet the orcs.”

“Good.” No matter that Astalor had threatened to murder him if he performed blood magic again － Rommath didn’t think he had the stamina to enact such dangerous magic anymore. Certainly not against orcs.

“What do we know about orcs?” he asked suddenly. “Only what the humans wrote after the opening of the Dark Portal, yes?”

Lor’themar frowned, clearly confused by the abrupt change in topic. (Anything to get away from the subject of his love life. Rommath had  _ no time _ for such indulgences, didn’t anyone understand that?) “I suppose so?”

“Idiot,” Rommath scoffed. “You would enter into an alliance with these people and know nothing of their history? Their culture?” He scowled. “What  _ language _ do they even speak?”

Lor’themar blinked. “...Orcish?”

“And do you  _ understand _ Orcish?”

The silence was telling. Rommath sighed. Pinched hard at the bridge of his nose. 

“This is why the Magisterium was always the backbone of Silvermoon,” he muttered to himself. Louder, to his friend, he said, “Bring me a primer. If one does not exist, order it made. I would have an emissary from Orgrimmar and some books in Orcish.” He narrowed his eyes. “Where would you be without me, Lor’themar?”

Lor’themar shook his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Between you and Liadrin, I have every advantage in all things. I would be lost without you both.”

“Don’t forget that.”

(A part of him knew the man was not that inept. This was a man who had assumed leadership in the midst of the Scourge. A man who learned the language of the trolls from captured Amani spies. Lor’themar Theron was not stupid enough to walk into the orcish city blind. But Rommath would not admit that he appreciated the man’s attempts at allowing him to be useful from his sick bed.)

“I will send a messenger to Sylvanas,” Lor’themar promised. 

“Sylvanas?”

“She has been in contact with the orcs the longest. I am sure she can procure the items you’ve asked for.”

“She speaks the language?”

Lor’themar shrugged. (Of course. Sylvanas had been his commander once. He would not easily question her, still.) “She sent a delegation of Forsaken to accompany ours to Kalimdor. I would assume at least one of them understands it.”

Rommath frowned. He did not like relying on others. His experiences told him that trust was hard won and easily broken. “I suppose once I learn, I will have to teach you all.”

“And I am sure you will find us receptive and willing students.” The ranger grinned. Rommath rolled his eyes.

* * *

It wasn’t until Kath’mar had proclaimed Rommath well enough to leave the infirmary that Sylvanas responded to their request for orcish materials. Erindae had been on his doorstep within the hour, a satchel in hand, and inside Rommath had found a thin book, several sheafs of parchment, and a leather journal. 

“The messenger wishes that this aid the Grand Magister in his studies,” she said. “Supposedly, this is what the Banshee Queen herself used to learn the language of the orcs.”

Rommath frowned, thumbing through the material. It was not much, but it was a start. “You will learn too,” was his reply. “I expect I’ll be relying on you for quite some time.” Even the walk from the infirmary to his chambers in the Spire had been exhausting, and he had never before considered the journey to be particularly tiresome. 

If his apprentice had any thoughts about the extra work, she kept them to herself. 

“Of course, Grand Magister.” She gave a small bow. “I will have them all duplicated at once.”

“Thank you. I will return to the office tomorrow.”

(He thought she intended to object to that, but she didn’t. Smart girl.)

He had intended to find Kim’alah, or perhaps one of the sanctum cats, but as soon as he had lowered himself to his divan, he found himself in the blissful realm of sleep.

* * *

The primer was written in Common. A quick look told him that all of the materials Sylvanas had sent were also in Common. He blanched. 

He should have known －  _ elves _ hadn’t fought the orcs in the Blasted Lands, after all. But neither Lor’themar nor Halduron spoke Common, and before Rommath could pass these documents to them, they would have to be translated into Thalassian. He sighed.

Well. He  _ had _ been itching to do some work. Perhaps translation would aid in his own understanding. 

The walk from his home had tired him, and Rommath abandoned the idea of spending the afternoon in his public office for a little more time in his private study. His apprentice could handle herself as interim Grand Magister for one more day, he thought, and if he needed a nap on his study’s divan (which he did  _ not, _ he told himself), no one would be any the wiser.

Rommath spent the next several days in his study, reading until he grew tired, using the small primer to translate and transcribe the few authentic orcish missives included in the documents. The orcs seemed to be a people of few words, their writing lacking descriptives and adjectives. Completely unlike Thalassian, with its unnecessary flowery prose. In a comparison between Common and Orcish, the humans had described a cavalry as “a unit of fine men upon the the sturdiest destriers, willing and able to lay down their lives for the safety of Azeroth.” The orcs had called that same cavalry simply “riders.” Whereas Thalassian would distinguish between the sweet pink apples of Quel’Danas, the orange of Eversong, and the aacidic, face-puckering golden of the southlands, the humans would call them all “apples” and the orcs only “fruit.” An apple, an orange, it mattered not in Orcish. It was all “fruit.” 

(They seemed to have a plethora of words for “meat,” and Rommath gathered that the orcs were not exactly vegetarian.)

The language was full of hard consonants and strange hyphenated words, and a small word, when translated, was often a long phrase. According to the Common reports, the orcs often shouted “loktar-ogar” when riding into battle. It meant “victory or death.”

It fit what he knew of the people.

When he tired, he turned his attention to the book Sylvanas had included. It was aptly named  _ A Short History of the Greenskins _ in Common, and was maybe only two hundred pages. A man by the name of Karramyn Langston had authored it. Rommath didn’t know the name. 

He had learned of the orcish invasion during his school days, of course. It was the catalyst of the Second War. But to read something so focused on the  _ orcs, _ rather than the humans, was fascinating. Rommath found himself so engrossed in the little book that he did not even notice the door to his study creaking open. 

“What are you doing here?” Astalor huffed. Rommath jumped.

“Pardon?”

“You should be resting,” Astalor admonished. “Erindae said I might find you here.”

“I am perfectly rested,” Rommath said. “Just reading.”

Astalor strode over. “Reading what?” Peered over the edge of the book. Rommath showed him the cover and Astalor frowned. 

“Leave it be, Astalor. It’s not hurting me.”

“You should be  _ at home,” _ his friend grumbled.

“I’ve had quite enough of sleeping and doing nothing,” Rommath snapped. “This keeps me busy.” 

Astalor pursed his lips, but did not protest. And then…

“You should go to Quel’Danas.”

“Why?” His voice was sharp. Surely Halduron hadn’t run his mouth to Astalor too?

“The Sunwell,” his friend replied. “It would do you good to relax near its shores.”

Right. The Sunwell. 

(At this rate, he would never set foot on the isle again, out of embarrassment.)

“Perhaps when I am feeling better,” he demurred. “And not so busy.”

“You can read there,” Astalor pointed out.

“I am more  _ useful _ here. Unless you would like to learn Orcish to keep the orcs honest?”

“It can’t be that difficult.” Astalor pulled a document towards himself, scanning it. He had always been better at languages than Rommath. Rommath still struggled with Darnassian. (What a mockery of an elven mage he felt himself to be sometimes.) “ _ Lok-narash. _ That seems very simple.”

Rommath frowned. He’d read the word, and he was sure he knew what Astalor was looking at. “ _ Victory or death _ ?”

Astalor laughed. “No. Not even close.” He tapped further down the sheet. “It says here:  _ Arm yourselves. _ ”

Rommath swore. “I suppose you would make a better teacher than I would,” he admitted. 

“You’re too impatient,” Astalor told him. “Here, let me help. We’ll learn together.”

“Don’t you have blood knights to attend to?”

“Oh don’t remind me.” His friend sighed. “I will find time for this. It would be good for two competent elves to be well versed in Orcish.”

Rommath laughed. “Between the two of us, we may only get one.” He gestured to the primer. “That is all I have.” 

“So get started, and I will drop in later for a lesson.” He narrowed his eyes. “And don’t over exert yourself!”

Rommath resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Of course, brother. Anything you say.”

* * *

Rommath was going to murder someone. His money was on Halduron. 

Astalor had shown up in his study quite late several days later. “My apologies,” he said anxiously. “I was held up.”

As a rule, Rommath abhorred tardiness. He decided to excuse Astalor on the technicality that they had never actually agreed when to meet again. “It’s fine,” he said, and Astalor relaxed. 

“I actually had a run in with Neeluu,” his friend said, inviting himself to sit. “We had a nice supper before I departed.”

“I see.” Rommath passed him a list he had painstakingly copied and translated into Thalassian. “How is she?” He had not seen Neeluu since before Kath’mar sent him home. 

(He was decidedly not thinking about that, about how he almost... _missed_ her company. He had other things on which to focus. Like Orcish.)

Astalor took the list. Didn’t look at it. “Worried about you, to be honest.”

“I’m not made of glass,” Rommath scoffed. 

“No,” Astalor concurred, “but she’d heard you’d been released from infirmary and asked after you. I told her you were as miserable as ever.”

Rommath rolled his eyes. “Thanks.”

His friend grinned. “Perhaps she should learn Orcish with you. You’re not nearly so agitated when she’s around.”

“I would prefer you, if I must have someone else at all,” Rommath said icily. He did not want to think that even Astalor had succumbed to Halduron’s gossip. 

“I would say she and I are on equal footing,” Astalor mused. “She is just as quick with languages and has the benefit of having studied Dwarvish and Draenei.”

“What do either of those have to do with Orcish?” Rommath snapped. 

“Dwarvish is rather guttural, is it not? Like Orcish?” Astalor’s eyes twinkled. “And the draenei originate from the same world as the orcs. I would imagine the languages have words in common.” 

“ _ You _ speak Draenei,” Rommath pointed out. The draenei of the Shattered Sun spoke Common well enough, but he knew they’d taught some of their language to the elves of Quel’Danas, Astalor included. Astalor, however, shook his head.

“My accent is terrible,” he chuckled. “They tell me so all the time. She’s much better.”

(Of course she was. Neeluu spent much of her day among the isle’s inhabitants. She would have picked up the language much more quickly than Astalor, who spent his days training recruits.)

“Well I have you,” he said firmly. “I’ll make do with your bad accent.”

“I could ask one of the Shattered Sun,” Astalor offered. “They may know Orcish as well.”

(Rommath was forced to admit that that was actually a good idea.)

“Enough,” he said after a moment. “We have work to do.” 

Studying with Astalor was a quiet and comfortable experience. Astalor applied himself to Orcish just as seriously as he did everything else in life, and it wasn’t long before he’d skimmed the list Rommath had given him and made notes on the sentence structure in the leather journal. It seemed this Karramyn Langston had authored both  _ A Short History of the Greenskins _ and the handwritten primer, and his grasp of languages was not terrible. Rommath hoped he and Astalor were actually  _ saying something, _ rather than stringing words together, but he supposed he would need an actual orc to tell him that. 

It would be weeks before the delegation to Orgrimmar landed in Kalimdor, even with fair winds. He hoped he would at least grasp vocabulary by the time they sailed back. 

“Look at the words for weaponry,” Astalor gasped, flipping through pages. “They seem every bit as warmongering as we’ve always heard.”

(There were fourteen different ways to say “axe,” Rommath had seen, dependent on sharpness, type of metal, and origin. There were an additional six words for the sort of axe used for labor.)

“Lor’themar thinks they will be good for the future of Quel’Thalas,” Rommath mused. “There are rumors of their honor. He doesn’t think they would abandon us as the Alliance did should something as catastrophic as the Scourge occur again.” 

“I pray we never have to test that,” Astalor said solemnly. “They were allies of the Amani though, in the Third War, weren’t they?”

Rommath’s knowledge of the Third War was spotty at best. He had been preoccupied with his archmage exams and theses, and Dalaran had been far removed from conflict. “I don’t believe that’s the case any longer,” he said, frowning. “The Banshee Queen has informed us they’ve allied with the Darkspear trolls in Kalimdor.”

“Different troll tribes don’t get along, do they?”

“Lor’themar would know better than I, but I don’t believe they do.” He made a note to investigate that piece of orcish history, though with the Amani such a persistent threat, he was sure the regent lord already had. He shrugged. “I’m afraid I know little and less of trolls.”

“Except for blood magic.” Astalor was frowning. Rommath’s eyebrows knit together. 

“I did not learn blood magic from the Amani,” he said slowly. 

“Then where did you learn it?” 

Rommath pressed his mouth into a thin line. After a moment, he said, “I have already sworn to you that it will not happen again.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.” His friend leaned forward. “Who taught you such a thing?”

“No one.” And that was true, at least. “There are books…”

Astalor scowled. “In the Forbidden Library?”

Probably.

“In Dalaran,” he said evenly. “When I was young and stupid, I consumed every book I could get my hands on. You know that.”

Astalor stared at him for several moments. Finally, he muttered, “Every silly human custom, you scorned. But _blood magic_ captured your interest.” He rolled his eyes. “Rommath, you… you are quite a piece of work.”

(Rommath knew a great many magicks that would frighten Astalor. He had inhaled the books of Dalaran’s library, ancient tomes of old kaldorei Highborne magic, draconic spells he could not work, the strange hissing incantations of the elementals. He had secreted away books on blood magic and necromancy and void magic in the pursuit of knowledge, never intending to be used but to fill the deep ache of  _ needing to know. _ He had promised himself as a young boy that he would learn all there was about magic. As Grand Magister, he felt justified in his younger self’s research. He never would have known about Dar’Khan’s conduit had he not delved into the writings of Amnennar and his necromancy.)

“Why could you not leave with a love of card games or chocolate?” Astalor asked.

“Because that Hearthstone game you so enjoy needs no skill and chocolate makes my teeth hurt,” Rommath retorted. 

“There is skill in Hearthstone,” Astalor muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every single time I talk about honor I get flashbacks of Zuko.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His first few months in Silvermoon, Rommath finds comfort of a different sort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS. I HAVE IT. THE GAY BOOK. SHADOWS RISING. IT CAME TODAY.
> 
> I know I should be excited to read the set up for the next expansion but FUCK THAT NOISE, I JUST WANT FAIRSHAW.
> 
> Oh and this chapter is rated M.

How had this happened? How had he ended up in the store room, shoved unceremoniously against crates of herbs and arcane crystals, hand tangled in a length of golden hair and the prince’s hot breath against his neck? 

Rommath couldn’t think. He kissed back hungrily, needily, shuddering as the prince’s hands traveled down his sides. He cupped the back of the prince’s head and tugged, gently at first and then more firmly, earning himself a low moan. It was late in the Sanctum － they were unlikely to be caught and Rommath found himself not caring in the least. Not with lips that soft sucking at the hollow of his throat, fingers that danced over the clasps of his robes. He had never before been so reckless and it was _electrifying._ He felt alive for the first time in years.

Somewhere to his left, something fell to the ground with a soft _thump,_ and he felt a little breath of air against his skin, the curving smile of lips. A small voice in his head admonished him to be careful, be quiet, but Rommath wasn’t listening to it. All his attention was focused on the hand down his front － the front of his robes were open and the tender skin of his stomach fluttered as slim fingers traced the laces of his trousers. 

“Eager tonight, are we?” Amusement bled through the prince’s lips and Rommath groaned deep in the back of his throat as the prince nibbled along the shell of his ear. He yanked hard on golden hair and the resulting moan nearly had him undone. He grinded his hips against the hand working his laces, desperate for more more _more…_

“I suppose I’ve kept you waiting long enough.” He licked a long stripe up Rommath’s neck and his hand dove into those abominable trousers and when it closed around him, Rommath felt all the breath leave his body. He pressed against the prince, eyes closed, his efforts at reciprocating knocked away by a slim hand. He gasped once the prince brought their lengths together in one hand, stroking slowly, the hot silky skin burning against his own, and all he could was pray his legs would not give out as they moved together.

Rommath sank his teeth into the prince’s shoulder as he came, a low moan keening in the back of his throat, and shuddered deliciously at the warm wetness spilling over their hands. The prince fell against him, forehead to the wall, and stroked them through their orgasms until at last Rommath was too sensitive, until he had to pull himself away. He wrapped his shaky arms around the prince, clutching at the back of his robes, and breathed. 

“ _Light_.” 

“Mm.” 

He had no words to spare as the blood slowly ebbed back into his extremities. His lover pulled back, kissed him softly. More softly than Rommath deserved. Rommath melted into him. 

“Maybe someday we’ll make it to a bed.” Silver eyes twinkled at him in his post orgasm haze. Silver, not blue. Rommath licked his lips. The prince never broke eye contact as he brought his dirtied hand to his lips and licked it clean. Rommath groaned. Seized him by the wrist and sucked his lover’s fingers into his mouth.

Prince Nallorath wasn’t Kael, but sometimes he made Rommath forget.

* * *

“You’re the new apprentice then?” The woman raised an eyebrow. Dark hair was pulled back neatly from her face by a silken ribbon.

“I am.” Rommath drew himself up to his full height, trying to look as though he hadn’t lain awake in tears the previous six nights. By her disdainful expression, he suspected he fooled no one.

“The Grand Magister mentioned you’d be here quickly.” Her eyes roved over him. “He never said you would be so… _young._ ”

Rommath didn’t know if that was an insult. 

“Oh well.” Her gaze flicked to the room behind him. “I see you’ve gotten settled. Evening meal is at seven bells.” She turned to leave.

“Pardon. And you are?”

She frowned. “Vor’na,” she said after a moment. “We’re all in the study, if you’d care to make an appearance.” 

All? “Oh! Er, sure.” She didn’t wait for him, and he set off at a brisk walk behind her.

Grand Magister Belo’vir kept his home overlooking the gardens of Feth’s Way. Rich and powerful nobles in this part of the city, attracted to the spacious villas and beautifully manicured foliage. The villa was larger than the house Rommath had grown up in (and was still considered a “city apartment”!), and housed at least a dozen or more private servants. Belo’vir had opened his home to Rommath and, aside from tripping over the occasional cat, Rommath found it a pleasant improvement from his boyhood chambers in the heart of the palace.

(The cats outnumbered the servants, seemingly congregating along the Grand Magister’s property like moths to a flame.)

He followed Vor’na down a grand staircase made of pale wood and along a long hall, over the threshold into a room carpeted with a beautiful rug made in high elven style. (The carpet alone could probably pay Tranquillien’s taxes for a year.) Seated on an elegant couch was Belo’vir, lap already overtaken by a small white kitten, and a man Rommath didn’t know. Vor’na did not bow upon entering the room, her skirts swishing about her legs. Rommath did.

Belo’vir waved a lazy hand at him. “My boy, we’re going to have to break you of that habit,” he said cheerily. “Make no mistake － I come from a lordly family but I am a simple man. You have no need to bow to me.” 

“Yes, sir.” He did not know if he should sit. 

“I see you’ve already met the Lady Vor’na,” Belo’vir continued. Vor’na nodded in acknowledgement, having seated herself in an armchair. “And this is Prince Nallorath.” He gestured to the man beside him. “Vor’na and Nallorath are my assistants.” 

“Good afternoon, your highness.” Surely he had to bow to a prince? Nallorath, eyes alight, grinned and spoke, as if reading his mind.

“I am no one important,” the prince said dismissively. “It makes me uncomfortable to have people bowing and scraping for me. Please don’t.”

“Nallorath is humble,” Belo’vir explained. 

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Vor’na quipped. 

“Well, we don’t want to scare him,” Nallorath put in. To Rommath he said, “Oftentimes people are offput at my being an assistant. I assure you, you are to impress Belo’vir, not me.” 

“Alright then…” Now that he looked more closely, Rommath thought to himself that perhaps he had met Prince Nallorath before. He had the same white gold hair of the Sunstriders, the aquiline nose, but where Kael and the king had eyes of blue, Nallorath’s shone pale silver. They were nice. 

“Please Rommath, make yourself at home,” Belo’vir said. “This _is_ your home now. Relax.” And Rommath sat, feeling stiff. 

He learned that Vor’na was the daughter of Lord Sunspring of the Convocation; and Prince Nallorath, he remembered now, was a cousin of Kael’s. A blood cousin, unlike dear cousin Lor. But he was older than Kael and the two were not close. Both Vor’na and the prince had been working with Belo’vir a great many years, and they had just returned that afternoon from Karazhan.

“I remember when you’d been asked to study with my cousin,” Nallorath said, goblet full of moonberry juice but not drinking. “I had just returned from Dalaran. My uncle the king was _very_ excited. He hoped you’d knock some sense into Kael.”

Rommath did not want to talk about Kael. “I’ve tried,” he admitted. “He is very stubborn.”

Vor’na laughed. “He set my skirt on fire when I was seventy,” she said. “Do you remember, Nall?”

Nallorath laughed. “I remember a very stern lecture from your father on smacking royalty.”

“Why did he set fire to your skirt?” Rommath asked. 

“Oh, I refused to teach him something or other.” Vor’na waved a hand lazily. “He was all of twelve and I was working on something with runes.”

“I believe they were dragon runes,” Nallorath mused. 

“Were they?” Vor’na made a face. She was much less tense now that she and Rommath were not alone. “Draconic magic is the worst. Remind me never to indulge again.”

“You didn’t indulge,” Belo’vir teased. “It never worked in the first place.”

“Exactly! I wasted two hundred years of study on it!”

He learned that Vor’na and Nallorath also lived in Belo’vir’s villa, and that Nallorath was as close to an apprentice as Belo’vir'd had until he’d come.

“I don’t have the temper for politics,” the prince had confided one day.

“I see that,” Rommath had chuckled. Nallorath had added too much powdered steelbloom to a tincture and the entire thing had frothed and overflown its cauldron, eating away at the wood of the table while Nall swore violently. He mostly oversaw the Magisterium with Vor’na, working on his own pet projects in the Grand Magister’s name and undertaking various tasks Belo’vir was too busy to take on himself. He was serious and dedicated, and at times he or Vor’na would step in to teach Rommath while Belo’vir attended to government or the Magisterium. He was patient and kind, and he never laughed at Rommath’s questions. 

Vor’na took time to warm to Rommath, and he to her. She was strict and exact, and her word was law. Even Nallorath feared angering her. (Rommath suspected Belo’vir did as well.) But she had a soft spot for the sanctum cats, and could often be found early in the morning putting out bowls of kibble for the little beasts. Her own was named Zaram and had vicious claws.

Rommath spent his days in Belo’vir’s shadow, learning statecraft and high magicks, and always, always taking notes. He sat in on meetings with the Convocation and the king, and afterwards Belo’vir would ask him his thoughts on the discussion or his opinion of Lord So-and-so. He rose at dawn every morning and helped Vor’na feed the sanctum cats, and read theses with Nallorath in the late afternoon. The nights were his own, and while he had, at first, segregated himself from Belo’vir and from his assistants, he soon found himself joining them. 

Perhaps that was how he had gotten himself into this. 

Rommath had rarely drunk to excess with Kael. He had not trusted himself, in all honesty, and keeping his prince out of trouble had always sobered him immediately. But here, in the cool spring evenings of the Grand Magister’s home, he found himself indulging in that extra glass of wine at evening meal, letting Vor’na pour him a goblet of some fine vintage or other while she and Nallorath discussed student theses or Magisterium projects. She and the prince both drank like fish, Rommath learned (and he almost understood, after hearing stories of the mages they oversaw. Belo’vir’s undertaking two assistants made more and more sense with every story he heard. Had he been that stupid at that age?)

With a loud, inelegant noise, Vor’na waved off Rommath’s offer of more wine. “I believe I will be retiring for the evening, sirs,” she said airily. “I’m off to Quel’Danas in the morning.”

“To see your Dawnblade?” Nallorath teased. 

“No!” Vor’na protested, too quickly. “Belo’vir’s given me a task! You wouldn’t know anything about it.”

Nallorath laughed into his goblet. “You’re right. I’m not fond of Dawnblades.”

“You’re not fond of any man who can thump you with the broad side of a sword without breaking a sweat,” Vor’na retorted. The prince shrugged. 

“I am a mage at heart, dear Vor’na,” he sighed. “I could never love the sword.”

The other mage shot him a look Rommath couldn’t decipher before shaking her head, a smile dancing on her lips. “Good luck, Rommath,” she giggled, rising unsteadily and swaying back inside. 

Rommath arched an eyebrow from over the rim of his goblet. He swallowed. He felt warm and tipsy and could not remember if this were his third glass or his fourth. “What was that about?”

“Vor’na likes to pretend otherwise,” Nallorath chuckled, “but whenever she visits the isle, she sneaks into the Dawnblade barracks.”

Rommath’s eyes widened. _That_ was cause for scandal. Lord Sunspring’s daughter with a Dawnblade soldier. “Really? How do you know?”

(Belo’vir had once told him never to find himself involved in politics. _Secrets,_ however, were another matter. “The best and most powerful magisters know everything that happens before it even starts,” he had told Rommath. “One day I will show you how to put a collection of secrets to use.”)

Nallorath laughed. He was also quite tipsy, his cheeks flushed and his hair escaping its tie. “I caught her, of course. She and her spellblade both.”

“What were you doing in the barracks then?” 

The prince blushed prettily, but his tone did not falter. “Why, the same as her.” He sipped delicately at his wine, a smile on his lips. 

It took Rommath a moment to process that. 

(Dawnblades were men. And Nallorath had caught Vor’na while he was… Oh. _Oh.)_

“I must confess,” the prince continued, “that I don’t find soldiers to my taste. That was several decades ago.” He cast a glance over at Rommath. “However, I have always preferred the sword to the sheath.”

Rommath choked.

“I… I see,” he gasped. He felt hot, and drank more wine. It didn’t help. 

“Are you alright?” Nallorath asked. 

Rommath nodded furiously. (The gods were cruel, he decided.) 

“I hope this sudden disclosure does not change things between us.” Nallorath smiled. “I would like you to feel welcome here, and I enjoy your company, as little of it as I see.”

Rommath nodded again. (Was he nodding too much? His mouth was dry.)

The prince sat back against his cushions, eyes cast out amongst the garden flowers. He looked, for the briefest moment, like Kael. 

(Kael, with his almond-shaped eyes and full, perfect lips. The high cheekbones and strong chin. Nallorath, looking so much like his cousin, so beautiful in the moonlight with his golden hair and blushing cheeks. _Light,_ he missed Kael.)

“No,” he said. “I enjoy your company as well. Your admission changes nothing.”

Nallorath’s gaze slid back to him, a smirk playing on his lips. “Nothing?” The word lilted at the end, questioning.

For a long moment, the look was so like Kael’s that Rommath forgot to breathe. Was he asking…?

(He was too drunk for this. This was why Rommath didn’t drink. This right here.)

The prince leaned forward. His eyes smoldered. “I think something’s changed,” he murmured. His hand came up to grasp at Rommath’s glass, and Rommath let it go without resistance. Nallorath set it on the table. 

“Unless I’m mistaken…?”

“You’re not.” 

“Oh?” 

(Why had he said that? It was the alcohol. It was the alcohol that had him staring at the curve of Nallorath’s lips, the crinkle in the corners of his eyes. Kael’s eyes didn’t crinkle…)

The prince’s hand slid next to his. Their fingers brushed. They were slim, like Kael’s. Rommath shivered. 

Nallorath’s eyes were molten silver. (Silver, not blue.) The smirk remained as his hand slipped over Rommath’s, fingertips tracing the the fine bones of his hand. Rommath swallowed as he felt those fingers dance along his forearm, over his bicep. He felt on fire. (When was the last time someone had looked at him like that? Was it just the wine?)

“Mm.” He felt rooted as Nallorath’s damnable hand came to cup his cheek. “You’re… you’re not mistaken at all.”

Nallorath grinned, and then covered Rommath’s lips with his own. They were soft and warm, and Rommath’s eyes fluttered closed. He hadn’t been kissed in… He didn’t remember. Since his affair with Capernian? How long ago was that? (Shut up, shut _up.)_

He gave himself to the kiss, to Nallorath, kissing back hungrily, his tongue against Rommath’s own sending shudders down his spine and straight to his groin. What had they been talking about, what started this? It had to be the alcohol, but Rommath found he didn’t care. Nallorath was so hot against him, his hand tender against his cheek, and Rommath’s own found their way into the prince’s hair, pulling it free from the tie. Nallorath moaned into his mouth at the contact, his free hand finding Rommath’s side and splaying there, holding for just a moment before drifting down, along the curve of his hip. One of them moved － Rommath wasn’t sure who － and he felt the prince’s knee wedge itself between his legs, spreading him open. The clasp on his robe fell undone, there were fingers teasing along the waist of his trousers. (And when was the last time he’d been _wanted_ like this?)

It was too much and not enough and Rommath didn’t want him to stop. 

But he did. 

He pulled away, and Rommath felt the loss of his heat intimately. 

“I’m afraid I’ve let myself get carried away,” Nallorath panted. “I don’t even know if you…”

“I do,” Rommath breathed. “By the Sunwell, I do.” He dipped his hand under the collar of the prince’s robes, groaned at the feeling of the prince’s flushed skin. (Groaned at the thought of those robes on the floor.) And when he pulled Nallorath close again, the prince didn’t pull away.

* * *

He still saw Kael when he closed his eyes, but that was okay. Kael was in Dalaran, and he would marry Neeluu, and he belonged to Rommath only in his dreams. And as the months went on, Rommath saw more similarities to his prince in his cousin, but for everything they shared, there were differences. Nallorath’s lips were fuller than Kael’s, and his shoulders broader. The smirk that had drawn him in sat differently on a face more slender, and the gleam in his eyes was devious at times but never the chaotic mischief of Kael. He carried himself differently, and even when he was laughing and bright and so, so resembled Kael, he was entirely his own being. Rommath found himself missing the prince when they were apart.

(This was only fucking, he told himself. Only fucking. Just an affair in a long list of affairs and meant nothing, but by the Sunwell, did Nallorath try his damnedest to make Rommath feel _something,_ and sometimes Rommath almost did.)

They fell into an easy companionability, he and Nallorath and Vor’na and Belo’vir, and his days in Dalaran felt so very far away…

“Why is it you chose to work for Belo’vir?” Rommath asked one day. The Grand Magister was needed elsewhere and Rommath had been assigned to Nallorath’s care for the day, a posting for which his friend was grateful. Exams and submissions deadlines were soon approaching, and the prince couldn’t possibly have waded through all of the theses and abstracts on his own. Vor’na helped, of course, and the two had divvied up the masses of parchment that arrived each morning in the Grand Magsiter’s office, but there were always more, and she was even now busy evaluating in person the proposed projects, judging them worthy of the Grand Magister’s time. Nallorath had dumped an entire stack on him the moment he had set foot in the office, and Rommath sat now rubbing his tired, dry eyes. He had been reading for hours. 

“Hmm?” Nallorath leaned back in his seat and stretched, long and luxurious. Rommath heard the pop of vertebrae as the prince groaned in relief. 

(The primary difference between the princes was their attitudes, Rommath decided. Kael’s cousin was fussy and no nonsense, and their work as colleagues never conflicted with their off time activities. Nallorath took his duties very seriously. If he had been Anasterian’s son, he would have made a good king.)

“Oh.” The prince waved a hand languidly as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I suppose I’ve never wanted a life just… _sitting around,_ as the lesser members of my family do.” He set his papers aside. “And I’ve always had a knack for magic.”

“You’ve a mind for theorems and numbers,” Rommath corrected. He had seen too often the corrections his friend made to a submission. The corners of Nallorath’s mouth quirked upwards.

“I suppose so. Belo’vir certainly doesn’t,” he muttered. From what Rommath had observed, the prince also handled the vast majority of the Magisterium’s financials, the ordering of reagents and parchments and robes. “We are old friends, Belo’vir and I. He was my mentor once, and just as terrible with calculations then as he is now.”

“Belo’vir schooled you himself?” Rommath asked. He didn’t think Belo’vir took on students.

His friend nodded. “He’d hoped I’d apprentice to him, I think,” he admitted, “but I dislike the notoriety that comes with the office. I appreciate floundering in relative anonymity.”

Rommath laughed. “I would hardly consider being the king’s nephew the same as _floundering anonymity_.”

“No,” Nallorath chuckled. “But the title of _the Grand Magister’s assistant_ leaves me with a certain degree of freedom. My station of assistant comes before my station of prince in this regard. I live as I like.”

“I see.” He did not press further, but he understood all the same. Without Belo’vir, Nallorath would have been expected to marry and produce little princes and princesses. Given his… _preferences,_ Rommath supposed this would have caused his friend significant distress.

“As does Belo’vir,” the prince added. Rommath raised an eyebrow. “You’ve noticed, I’m sure, that he is _wholly devoted_ to his position.”

Rommath had noticed that. Belo’vir was unmarried, or else he liked his wife very little. Rommath had heard no word of a family, and Belo’vir only left the villa for work.

“His brother is the current Lord Salonar,” Nallorath said unprompted. “Belo’vir decided it should pass to him once he took office.”

That was… interesting. 

He wondered why Nallorath was telling him this.

(It certainly couldn’t be the letters from his father, arriving with ever increasing frequency. Rommath had taken to shutting them in the drawer of his desk, unopened. They were all filled with the same drivel about marriage and eligible women anyway.)

“It is late,” the prince said suddenly, “and I will not speak for you, but I am starving. We should return to the villa for evening meal.”

And that was how Rommath had found himself in this situation, in this store room with the prince, trousers unlaced and manhood softening between them. He tucked himself back in and made himself presentable, watched with fond, hooded eyes as Nallorath did the same. 

“I would say I’m sorry,” Rommath murmured, “but I’m not.” He liked to take his time with his lovers, usually, but somehow Nallorath invigorated a passion in him he’d previously never had, much less explored. The Rommath of Dalaran would never have resigned himself to a quick fuck in a closet. Would never have relinquished control the way he had to Nallorath. He had allowed himself to be pulled into this closet, to be pinned against the wall and ravished, and more to the point, he had _enjoyed_ it. The Rommath of Dalaran would never had done this with Capernian or Miluria or Brasael, would have spirited them away to his chambers. _Had_ spirited them away to his chambers. But the Rommath of Silvermoon, Archmage and apprentice to the Grand Magister, _anticipated_ such things with Prince Nallorath. 

(Perhaps it was distance from Kael, he thought. It made him bolder. Giddy, even.)

He leaned close and brushed his lips over the prince’s own. “Still hungry?” he teased, and Nallorath laughed breathlessly.

“Famished,” he said. “Perhaps we leave Vor’na to drink alone tonight, and spend the night in bed?”

Rommath grinned. “Yours or mine?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> D'y'all know Nallorath? He's a Sunstrider... _something_ (his exact relationship to Kael and Anasterian is never made clear) from back in the day. My Nall isn't quite as old as canon Nall (canon Nall should be roughly Anasterian's age; mine is perhaps a century older than Rommath, who's a little older than Kael. Lor'themar is somewhere in between the two) because ew. I wanted my boo to have some happiness before I go back to tormenting him.
> 
> Also, while playing in the Ruins of Silvermoon the other day on a new belf, I decided that that's the area of pre-Scourge Silvermoon where the rich people and court nobles live, because I mean, just LOOK at it. It's super ritzy and fancy even all run down and infested with Wretched. 
> 
> Vor'na is from the trading card game. She's the only female Wretched, like, ever, and she looks like she'd have been really pretty as a belf. (Why do I keep giving backstories to Wretched when I know it will only cause me pain??) She also 100% knew Nall was going to seduce Rommath that night. I would imagine the blackmail the two have on each other (Vor'na gets around, Nall's gay af) means they occasionally gossip and share secrets with each other.
> 
> NOTE: Kael is always "his prince." Nall is always "the prince." (Even in the present chapters, if you've noticed.) Nall is not "his", even if Rommath does like him a lot. Them Sunstriders have some amazingly strong pheromones.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kael comes to visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not proofread. I'm reeling over Shadows Rising. It was NOT enough for my bleeding Fairshaw heart.

He had imagined such a scene many times. He would enter his chambers, tired from his long day, or perhaps anxious to pick up the book he never had time to finish, and he would not be alone. He would look up at some noise, and perched on his bed, irresistible smirk in place, would be his prince. Sometimes, late at night with naught but his hand for company, in his thoughts his prince was on him in an instant, all hot lips and skilled hands, peeling the robes from his frame and peppering his face with quick, insistent kisses. Sometimes he was already sprawled, naked and tantalizing, over his sheets, white gold hair cascading over his shoulders, waiting to be ravished. 

Well. He wasn’t on Rommath’s bed and he wasn’t naked, but Rommath had never expected those fantasies to come true.

“Rommath!” Kael cried, leaping up as the door opened and rushing to him. Folding him into his arms. Rommath felt the steady beat of his prince’s heart against his own chest, his eyes wide as his arms moved of their own accord. Hugged Kael back. He smelled of soap and sunlight and the arcane.

He had to be dreaming. 

His prince pulled away, slender hands firm on Rommath’s bare arms, and grinned cheekily. “Were you surprised?”

 _Surprised_ did not even begin to explain how he felt.

(Had he drank too much? He’d only had one glass…)

“Well don’t just stand there gaping like a fish!” Kael laughed. “Say something!”

_Is this real?_

Rommath placed a hand on Kael’s chest, as much to confirm the man before him as distance from him. He felt warm.

“What are you doing here?” He sounded small to his own ears, his voice that of a little boy’s. 

“Why, visiting you, of course!” He said it as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, all wide smile and twinkling eyes. “Haven’t you missed me?”

_Light, yes._

“How did you get in my _room?”_ Rommath said instead.

“Belo’vir,” his prince said simply. “I wanted to surprise you. It worked, I see.”

 _Belo’vir…_ The Grand Magister had said nothing at dinner. Had never mentioned that Kael sat waiting in his chambers. 

_Light,_ it was good to see him. All Rommath wanted to do was stay there in that moment, Kael’s bare hands grasping his biceps, and drink in the sight of him. He wanted to press his lips to his, throw his arms around his prince and never let go. They had been apart three months, and still he _ached_ for the man. 

He did none of those things. Merely removed himself from Kael’s grasp and stepped back.

“Why haven’t you been answering my letters?” Kael demanded. 

Rommath couldn’t say that even the familiar looping scrawl of his prince twisted the knife in his gut. Kael had written of Dalaran － complaining of boredom and the Council of Six, that _drinking is no FUN without your judgement._ He had written of Jaina Proudmoore and how he most definitively gave her no thought anymore, and of Neeluu and her studies. He had written that he missed Rommath, and Rommath could not tell Kael that he missed him so deeply. That being away from him was almost as bad as being by his side with his betrothed. That mornings without Kael’s delighted chatter over coffee and evenings alone in bed with only his memories were torture. He knew if he wrote Kael he would confess it all, and he could not bear the shame. So he didn’t.

“Belo’vir’s been keeping me quite busy,” he lied, and was assaulted by a pang of guilt. He had never lied to Kael.

His prince frowned. “You never were good with writing. But three months, Rommath!”

Rommath shrugged, feigning indifference. “My mother has similar complaints,” he offered weakly. 

“I am your _prince,”_ Kael said sternly.

_Yes, my prince._

“My apologies. I will try and be better about it.” 

“Yes, you shall.” Kael glared, but the effect was ruined almost immediately by a sheepish grin. “I’ve missed you, _dalah’norfal,”_ he said again, more softly.

(It would be such a simple thing to bridge the gap he’d created, to pull Kael back in his arms and press their lips together. So natural to guide Kael back to his bedroom, lower him onto his sheets and _show_ him how Rommath had missed him…)

“And I you,” Rommath murmured, telling that voice in his head to be quiet. His time in Silvermoon had not dampened his feelings for the man, only inflamed them.

“I apologize for arriving so late,” Kael said, turning with a swish of his robes and settling himself handsomely upon the couch. “The Six commanded my attention for an obscene amount of the day.”

(Stop staring at him, Rommath.)

Rommath felt his feet follow, and lowered himself to his couch. His leg was mere inches from Kael’s. “I hadn’t expected you in the first place.”

“You should have!” Kael laughed. “I threatened often enough to drag you back to Dalaran if you kept ignoring me.”

Was that the reason for his abrupt appearance then? Was he here to beg Rommath to come back? (Kael never begged.) Was he here to confess how lost he was without Rommath by his side? (He would never.)

_I never ignored you. Say it and I will follow you wherever you would go._

Kael was looking at him. “I can’t stay long, I’m afraid. Only until tomorrow.” He made a face. “The Six has impressed upon me the importance of our next meeting.” He said it mockingly, as if he cared little for Dalaran’s rulers or their talks.

“You shouldn’t have left then,” Rommath chided. “Why would you come here for only one night?”

“For you, stupid.” Kael cuffed him lightly upside the head. “I had to be certain you were still _alive.”_

Rommath scowled. “If either of us were to expire, you would be the first,” he muttered darkly, drawing a laugh from his prince. “I’m serious. Dead of your own stupidity.”

Kael grinned. “Ah, but you forget I am _quite_ the adept conjuror. I would never want for sustenance. You, dear Rommath, could learn to create better food.”

“My food is perfectly fine.”

“The last mana buns I had from you tasted burned,” Kael argued. “And if you can’t conjure a _pastry,_ how would you ever conjure anything more substantial? Weapons? Shelter?”

“Burnt or not, they were still edible.”

“By whose standards?”

“You ate them all, so I would say yours.”

“I was hungry and you didn’t want to go out,” Kael said airily. 

Rommath rolled his eyes, trying to suppress a grin. He had _missed_ his friend. It felt good to banter with him.

They stayed up long into the night talking. Rommath ordered a servant bring tea and wine and fruit, and he and Kael drank the entire bottle, chatting about Rommath’s studies under Belo’vir, his father’s impatience with him, and anything else that struck their fancy. Kael told Rommath that Telonicus had been offered a job in the Sanctum, and Rommath told Kael that he had been there when Belo’vir had written the letter, had vouched for their friend to the Grand Magister. Kael waved off talk of government bureaucracy, citing “boring nonsense” unfit talk for the night, and Rommath turned instead to the secret magics he had been learning under Belo’vir, the spells he had been taught and runes he’d memorized. He had never kept anything from Kael, and Kael would be king some day anyway. He would find out on his own in time.

(He did not mention Nallorath. The thought of the prince made Rommath’s ears flame, made him feel horribly guilty for some atrocity he was not sure he had committed.)

When at last sleep took them, they fell asleep there on the couch in Rommath’s front room, the wine bottle emptied and the tea drunk, and the sun slowly slipping up over the horizon.

* * *

Rommath woke alone, and he wondered for the longest moment if it had all been a dream. A wonderful, frighteningly realistic dream. Had Kael truly been there? Two wineglasses sat on his table, and two cups of soggy tea leaves on two saucers. Rommath slid his body to where Kael had sat, his nose to the fabric, and inhaled the clean scent of soap and sunlight. Kael’s scent. Where had he gone?

(Perhaps he had simply drunk too much with Nallorath. That happened on occasion.)

Sighing, Rommath hefted himself off the couch, peered outside. The sun was high in the sky now and he swore. He had overslept. Belo’vir would not be pleased. Why had no one woken him?

Cursing himself and his dreams and the wine, Rommath ripped a robe at random from his wardrobe and changed into it. He fixed his untidy hair, spilling sloppily from the tail he’d tied it in yesterday morning. On a whim, he fished out the golden silk ribbon Kael had lent him long ago, the ribbon he had never returned, and tied his hair anew with it. It glittered against the black tresses, the only spot of color in his practical ensemble. He jammed his feet into the shoes he’d discarded during the night and rushed out the door. 

He saw no one as he hurried through Belo’vir’s home, thanking his lucky stars. He would make his apologies quickly to the Grand Magister and work straight through the night. He supposed he would be spending it in the Sanctum, sifting through old tomes and memorizing runes and formulae.

But Belo’vir was not at the Sanctum, because he was sitting on a bench in one of the gardens along Feth’s Way, chatting amiably with… _Kael._

(He hadn’t been dreaming. Kael had really been there last night.)

Rommath came to a stop before them, for once at a loss for words. 

“There you are, my boy! I was beginning to worry.” Belo’vir smiled easily at him, as though it weren’t afternoon and Rommath wasn’t _phenomenally late._

“You were snoring when I left,” Kael said helpfully. (Kael never woke before him.)

“Kael’thas told me he kept you up,” the Grand Magister explained. “I thought you should have a bit of a lie in. He is even now attempting to convince me to give you the day off, and himself too.”

“I don’t see why it wouldn’t work,” Kael said ruefully. “You _are_ Silvermoon’s Grand Magister.”

“I highly doubt that I hold sway over the Council of Six,” Belo’vir said patiently, with the air of someone who had said the same thing many times in numerous ways. Rommath chuckled.

“Get used to it, sir. Kael will continue this torment well after he is king,” he warned.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that either,” Belo’vir commented. “But by that time, he’ll be your problem, not mine.” He grinned.

“A millennia of dragging him from his bed in the mornings and prying the bottle from him at night,” Rommath drawled. “As if I won’t have enough to do as Grand Magister. I suppose I’ll run the kingdom as well.”

“I am sitting right here,” Kael muttered. 

“I’m aware. That’s why I’m saying it.” 

Belo’vir laughed. “And that reminds me. I must find Anasterian,” he told them both, rising. His staff leaned against the bench and he seized it with renewed vigor. “Kael here has seen fit to distract me with his errand, and I was supposed to sit down with Anasterian…” He squinted in the general direction of the sun. “Oh, about twenty minutes ago.”

“I apologize on his behalf,” Rommath said quickly, knowing Kael wouldn’t.

“I don’t,” Kael chimed. “I’m thankful for your help, Belo’vir.”

Belo’vir smiled at him. “Of course.” He looked towards the direction of the Spire and back again. “I shall warn you, Kael. If your father asks, I will tell him you’re here.”

Kael sighed. “Very well.”

To Rommath, the Grand Magister said, “Don’t worry about your studies today. See if Nallorath or Vor’na require any help once you’re through, alright?”

Rommath nodded. They bid the Grand Magister good afternoon and watched as he headed in the direction of the palace, one of the sanctum cats joining him along the way.

Kael broke the silence. 

“Nallorath?” He looked at Rommath questioningly. “Not my cousin?”

Rommath nodded again. “The very same.” He felt uncomfortable as he took Belo’vir’s recently vacated seat. He didn’t want to speak of Nallorath. 

“How’s Nall these days?” Kael, however, did. “I haven’t seen him in… By the Sunwell, maybe five or six centuries.”

Rommath looked away. “He’s alright. Belo’vir keeps him busy. Keeps us all busy, really,” he added. It felt wrong to discuss Nallorath with Kael. 

“I should warn him,” Kael went on. “Tell him you need some fun in your life. You’re too serious, Rommath. Always have been.”

(Nallorath provided Rommath with plenty of _fun,_ he thought. He kept silent.)

“What’s that?” he asked suddenly, noticing for the first time a basket on Kael’s opposite side. (Anything to avoid the subject of Nall.) “Your errand with Belo’vir?”

Kael glanced at it, and his face broke into a grin. He pulled the basket into his lap. “Actually, yes.” He swatted Rommath’s hand away when he tried to peek.

“What is it?” he pressed, and Kael’s eyes sparkled. 

“Later,” he said devilishly. “Open it when I’ve left, alright?” 

“A-alright?” What had Kael gotten?

The basket was sent to Rommath’s chambers and lunch was a jovial affair, but all too soon, Kael was standing, announcing that he had to return to Dalaran, and it took everything in him to nod. To keep silent. To not reach for his prince’s hand and say, _Stay. Stay with me._

Abruptly, Kael pulled him into a hug. 

“I’m sorry our reunion was so short-lived,” he breathed by Rommath’s ear. “I really did sneak away.”

And Rommath held him tightly, memorizing every inch of Kael’s body against his. “Of course you did,” he scoffed. “Brash and impulsive and stubborn…”

Kael laughed. “You’re the stubborn one,” he countered. “ _Write_ me, you ass. Or I shall have to keep dropping in.”

_I would love that. As often as you like._

But Rommath merely nodded into Kael’s hair, and as his prince’s hands swirled, forming the portal that would take him back － take him away － he chewed the inside of his cheek. He tasted sharp, metallic blood.

And then Kael was gone. Kael was gone, and Rommath felt as though his heart had been torn from his chest all over again.

* * *

He’d forgotten about the basket. He had run errands for Vor’na, not really noticing nor caring where his feet took him, and when she proposed they wrap things up in time for dinner, he feigned a headache and slipped away to his chambers. He didn’t want to see anyone.

The basket sat innocently enough on the table in his front room. Rommath almost didn’t notice it at first, so consumed by fresh grief. But he did, and while a large part of him was fed up over the centuries with Kael’s foolishness and pranks and silly gifts, a larger part craved any piece of him that had been left behind. Rommath dragged himself to his table, eyes alighting on the note tied the handle. 

_I never properly congratulated you for your appointment,_ it read. _I was unsure as to what you would like. Every Grand Magister needs this, Belo’vir says, and he allowed me to bestow her upon you._ And there, down at the bottom, _I’ve named her Kim’dal. One day your own star will rise, dalah’norfal, and shine beside my own._

Curious, emotional, Rommath lifted the basket’s finely woven lid. Inside, curled into itself, its tail over its own nose, was a kitten. Its eyes were squeezed shut and its chest rose and fell in even rhythm as she slept. Covered in brown fuzzy fur and splattered with cream and orange, at Rommath’s intrusion it made a small noise, the tiniest mew, and Rommath melted. 

_Kim’dal. Little Star._ A little piece of Kael’s own sun.

His chest heaved. His breath caught in his throat. 

Nallorath found him sometime later, curled in bed atop the sheets, tiny Kim’dal asleep against his stomach.

“You missed dinner,” the prince said quietly, and Rommath could not even bring himself to be angry at the intrusion. “I’ve brought some tea and bread, if you’re hungry.”

“I’m fine.” His eyes were closed, unable to look Nallorath in the face. He didn’t want to see anyone. He didn’t want the reminder of Kael in Nallorath’s features, the golden hair slightly too bright, the eyes the wrong shade. He kept one hand curled around the kitten; she fit into his palm.

He felt the bed dip as Nallorath sat, felt the prince’s hand on his thigh. “Are you alright?” Heard the concern in his voice.

“Just tired,” Rommath lied. 

“Kael’thas tends to have that effect on people,” Nallorath chuckled softly, and Rommath felt a twinge of irritation. How would he know? The two princes were not close. Nallorath did not know Kael as Rommath did. Nallorath knew nothing about him.

“Mm.” 

He felt a hand on his own, lightly. “New friend?” the prince asked. 

(Rommath did not want to share Kim’dal. Selfishly pulled her to him, her tiny body yielding as she slept on, oblivious.)

“Every Grand Magister should have a cat,” he remarked. “Belo’vir said.” It felt very important that Nallorath not know who gave Kim’dal to him.

And Nallorath laughed at this, his touch disappearing only to fall higher, along Rommath’s cheek. He smoothed away a stray hair. “Of course. Cats are useful secret keepers, after all.” 

(Kim’dal was so much more than a secret keeper.)

The prince leaned forward, pressed his lips to Rommath’s temple. “I’ll let you sleep,” he murmured. “Do feel better, dear.”

And Rommath listened to the prince’s soft footsteps as he left, and his heart hurt all over again, differently than before. 

_Nallorath is not Kael. He will never be Kael._

The fact had never before seemed so cruel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kim'alah is descended from Kim'dal, who is named after [shinyforce's kitty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12088695/chapters/27399756). She is truly the only piece of Kael Rommath has left. 
> 
> (Kim'dal's appearance is based on that of my late cat Aisha, who featured in every story I ever wrote for all seventeen years of her life. I miss her terribly. Kim'alah's appearance is based on my current furchild Luna.)


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The orcish delegation arrives in Silvermoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have no idea how many scenes got cut and rewritten for this chapter. I had a whole bit with precious bean Salandria. One day I shall find a place for her.

He stood stiffly in the Spire’s receiving hall. His robes were pressed and crisp, his hands clasped behind his back. Beside him stood Lor’themar, a plush cloak draped over his shoulders, and on his other side Halduron, in his best leathers, sans stray leaves. Liadrin had returned, had swept her hair cleanly into a neat tail; and at the last minute Neeluu arrived, slipping into place beside Rommath in her stiff brocade and halo collar. They almost, though not quite, resembled the Convocation, Rommath thought. Before the Scourge.

Through the portal could be a swirling mass of red sands and stone cliffs, and out of it stepped the oddest collection of people Rommath had ever seen. Four orcs, three males to one female; a tauren, a Forsaken woman, and…  _ a troll.  _ Out of the corner of his eye, Rommath saw Halduron tense. Lor’themar stepped forward, an easy grin on his face. 

“Welcome to Silvermoon,” he said, in Orcish. “I am Lor’themar Theron, the Regent Lord of Quel’Thalas.” Blood elves bowed when they met, and Lor’themar inclined his head politely, but the motley assortment made no move to follow.

“Throm-ka,” said the male orc. He was taller than Lor’themar, with large meaty shoulders and hands. His black hair had been swept from his face and decorated in little braids, beads of wood and bone threaded through the strands, and his armor looked almost like it belonged on a human. He smacked a fist to his chest in response to Lor’themar’s bow. Rommath supposed that was the way the orcs did things. 

“Regent Lord, you stand before Thrall, son of Durotan, and Warchief of the Horde,” said one of the orcs. He wore a wolf’s skull over his face, the pelt along his shoulders. Rommath did a double take.  _ Thrall? _ He had heard of the orcish warchief but he had not expected… someone so  _ young. _

Dinner was an…  _ interesting _ affair. The Forsaken woman, Kristine Denny, had been to Silvermoon before, on behalf of Sylvanas, and though she had no need or food nor drink, she seemed not to care, and helped herself to their strongest wine. She sat far away from the tauren (Rommath believed the tauren to be female, but he had never seen one and wasn’t sure), who had positioned herself closest to Neeluu and was chatting amiably in passable Orcish. Rommath thought he heard them discuss the Dead Scar. The orcs and the troll seemed not to know what to make of the silverware, with the exception of Thrall, who politely cut his roast dragonhawk with knife and fork too small for his large hands. The older of the orcs, Drek’Thar, attempted, but the one with the wolf’s pelt gave up, using his fingers to scoop food into his great mouth. Rommath kept his face carefully neutral.

Liadrin had been seated beside the orc female and Drek’Thar, and despite having limited time with Shaani, was able to carry on a quick conversation in the orcs’ language. Lor’themar and Thrall remained in deep discussion, and soon the two were laughing like old friends. Rommath, on Thrall’s other side, did what he did best, and listened. And Halduron, unfortunately, was left with the troll Tatai. 

(Rommath prayed to every deity of every religion, to the Light, the Sunwell, and his sister that Halduron would keep himself in check. His hatred of trolls was well known.)

“You speak Orcish very well,” Thrall said. “It isn’t easy to learn, I’ve been told.”

“Common was harder,” Lor’themar told him. “I found little hardship with your language.”

“Sorry to not speak Thalassian,” the warchief murmured. He pronounced it  _ Thalasshan. _

“It’s a difficult language, sir,” piped Kristine Denny. “That’s why they speak Common.” She grinned.

“It is,” said the tauren. “I must learn it so I can read your books.”

“Gol’Kosh!” exclaimed Drek’Thar. “What are we eating? It’s very good.”

“Dragonhawk,” Liadrin told him. “One of the many animals native to Quel’Thalas.”

“What on Azeroth is a dragonhawk?” the tauren wondered. 

And so it went. Rommath spoke when spoken to, and kept his ears and eyes open. 

“I must admit,” Neeluu said primly, “that I am surprised at the decision to bring trolls with you, Thrall.” She arranged her features into a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry for my disrespect. You must understand, we have been enemies for a long, long time.”

(Thank the Light Neeluu said it and not Halduron.)

The troll by Halduron’s side laughed. His skin was blue and his shocking red hair had been styled sticking straight up. “We know,” he said. “Dat be why I come. Ya will see. De Darkspear are not de Amani. De Darkspear hate de Amani.”

Lor’themar smiled, a little tightly at the corners. “That is very good news.” 

“Allying with the Darkspear meant forgoing our agreement with the Amani,” Drek’Thar explained. “It made sense. There are no Amani in Kalimdor.”

“Good riddance,” Tatai muttered. 

(Rommath made a note to tell Astalor he had been right about troll tribes.)

“Yes, good riddance.” Lor’themar held up his goblet and they toasted to their shared hatred of the tribe that had plagued them for so long. At least they all had one thing in common, and that soothed Rommath’s nerves the smallest amount.

Dessert and coffee found them discussing politics, and Neeluu and Liadrin sat with the new ambassadors to discuss their hopes for their alliance, while Rommath and Halduron followed Lor’themar, Thrall, Drek’Thar, and Nazgrel into an adjacent room to discuss terms. This was the part Rommath had been dreading.

(Their last alliance had been a failure. The human kingdoms had not held to their end of the bargain, had not even warned them of the undead plague. Had spared not a single soldier in aid. And that had led to Dar’Khan’s betrayal and Arthas’s invasion, to the Sunwell’s destruction and Kael’s descent into madness… Rommath shuddered.)

Quel’Thalas would not be getting the short end of the stick this time. Rommath had written the paperwork himself. 

The orcs spent a long time reading their terms. There were many. Protection against the Amani, from the Scourge still ravaging the Plaguelands. From the human kingdoms, their sworn enemies in their abandonment of Quel’Thalas. The security of the Sunwell, and gold to fund the rebuilding of Silvermoon. Rommath had been harsh. He would not bend.

(He got his way in the end. At least in this, in politics, he always got what he wanted.)

* * *

The orcish delegation had left, leaving behind the orc Cheneta and Tatai the troll from Orgrimmar, Dela Runetotem of Thunder Bluff, and Kristine Denny from the Undercity, ambassadors and go-betweens for the Horde. (Silvermoon had sent back to Orgrimmar Lady Dawnsinger and Arial D’Anastasis, women of distinguished learning who had represented Quel’Thalas’s interests in the past.) Rommath wasted no time in accommodating them within the city, in luxurious apartments in the Court of the Sun and appointing a mage named Kelemar as their personal envoy.

“Do you think it worth it?” Rommath asked. 

“I do,” Lor’themar replied. “I still trust Sylvanas’s judgement. She sees value in their strength.”

“A  _ troll, _ Lor,” Halduron protested. “You’ve allied us with  _ trolls!” _ The ranger was so angry he was spitting. “After everything the Amani have done!”

Lor’themar frowned. “Sylvanas feels the same, Halduron,” he reminded his friend gently, “yet she still signed an agreement.”

“Does she speak for Quel’Thalas or do you?” Rommath snapped. Lor’themar shut his mouth. “Regardless of her position in life, Sylvanas Windrunner is Ranger General no longer. You cannot shape your reign－”

“I do not reign,” Lor’themar interjected.

“－around the whims of one woman!” Rommath glared at him. The regent lord held his gaze for several moments, mouth set in a thin line, and then dropped it.

“You speak the truth,” he admitted. “I have relied too heavily on Sylvanas in the previous months.” He did not say  _ since the death of our prince. _ “But I do believe the Horde offers the most benefit for our people. I would not have us strike a deal with the Alliance, not after their betrayal during the events of the Scourge.” 

“I just hope you know what you’re doing,” Rommath muttered darkly. 

“You know we can not stand alone.” Lor’themar’s gaze was piercing. 

“But  _ trolls?!” _ Halduron was still furious over the troll Tatai in Silvermoon. “We should have that troll under guard at all times!”

“You heard him say he hates the Amani, Halduron.”

“He’s a troll,” the ranger insisted. “They’re all spiteful and evil and have you forgotten they nearly murdered you?” Lor’themar frowned, ready to object.

“Well  _ I _ liked him,” Liadrin chimed in. “I thought him very laidback and funny.” 

Halduron stared at her.

“I think you two would rather get along, actually.”

The stare became murderous. But Halduron said nothing. He would not yell at Liadrin, whether out of respect or because she was Lor’themar’s partner. Angrily, he took a large gulp of his ale (some cheap ranger’s drink, Rommath thought).

Neeluu giggled behind her hand. “I think Lor’themar’s doing a fine job,” she said, “even considering the trolls.”

“Thank you.” Lor’themar preened.

“If that will be all,” and here she stood, “I should be returning to Quel’Danas.”

“I’ll go with you,” Rommath offered. “I have some business with Astalor.” 

(He decidedly did not look in Halduron’s direction. He knew the other elf was sporting an insidious grin.)

* * *

He felt Captain Flamekissed’s eyes boring holes into his back. He decided not to mention it.

“What is this urgent business of yours, Grand Magister?” Neeluu teased. 

“Can’t I pay my friend a visit?” Astalor had applied for permission to build his own home on the isle, to be closer to the spirit of his wife. No one, not even the High Priest himself, was afforded such luxury － Quel’Danas was small and its resources limited, and the inhabitants of Dawnstar Village were expected to devote themselves to the Sunwell and its pilgrims. But Neeluu had granted Astalor’s petition, and Astalor had begun work on a small cottage on the outskirts of town. 

“I suppose.” Her gaze slipped over the water. “He’s doing better lately.”

“I’m relieved. I thought after my brush with death…” Rommath averted his eyes. He thought he’d truly shattered something in Astalor. He felt guilty. 

Neeluu was looking at him. “Yes?”

He sighed. “I don’t feel right about it,” he admitted. “What I did… It saved us all. The ends should have justified the means.” He placed a hand on his chest, over the large scar that still lingered. “In some way, I wanted to die in Deatholme.” 

Neeluu inhaled sharply. “Rommath…”

Rommath shook his head. He’d wanted his aching heart to stop. He’d wanted to join his sister and Kael, wherever they were. His parents, his brothers… He had  _ wanted _ that, and hadn’t realized until he’d woken up in that dark tent, Astalor’s hand on his arm. If his sacrifice killed Dar’Khan and himself both, then it would have been worth it. 

But in his final moments, he thought of Astalor. The brother he’d leave behind. Astalor who’d lost his mother so young, who’d lost his father in the Scourge. Astalor who’d had to watch as all those he’d known and loved walked through the portal with Kael, allied themselves with the Burning Legion. Who’d lost his wife in the invasion. Who had only Rommath left. He couldn’t leave Astalor to suffer as Rommath had. He wasn’t alone either. He had Astalor. 

Perhaps Astalor had brought him back.

“He’s still angry with me,” Rommath admitted. “I know that. But I understand. I would be angry too, if I were him.”

(The thought of losing Astalor hurt as much as the deaths of his sister and Kael.)

“As would I,” Neeluu murmured. “You fool. Did you think no one would mourn you if you died?”

_ Yes. _

“I’m sorry,” was all he could manage. He had been consumed by grief for a long time. He had let it rule him for far too long. 

“Astalor would be heartbroken if you had died,” she said quietly. 

“I know.” 

A beat. And then…

“And so would I.” 

Rommath looked at her. She bit her lip. The confession had splashed a faint blush over her cheeks. 

(It had been her voice he’d heard as he’d burned his way through Dar’Khan’s soldiers. Her lips on his cheek that had bothered him in his sleep. Her face the first face he'd seen when he’d finally opened his eyes, safe in Silvermoon.)

He didn’t know what to say. 

(He didn’t know how to feel.)

Neeluu was withdrawing, pulling away now. “I should go,” she whispered, her eyes round and luminous. “I have a few matters to attend to.”

(What did he feel? Nearly his entire life, all he had seen was Kael.)

“I should find Astalor,” he heard himself reply. 

She was nodding. “Please, erm… give him my regards.” 

“Of course.”

Her hands folded in front of her, took a step back. She inclined her head, which Rommath returned. And she walked away, skirts swishing. 

Rommath sighed in defeat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those keeping track, he's rejected her twice. 
> 
> Or rather, she's put herself out there twice and he's cowered away from her. Oh Rommath...


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emotions run high on Quel'Danas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not edited, because it's like 4am and I'm lazy.

The Bloodsworns were among one of the richest, most noble families in the kingdom of Quel’Thalas. They owned several country homes, a luxurious townhouse in the Court of the Sun, and more northern lands than the Crown itself. It was quite a surprise to Rommath to see that his friend had commissioned not a manor befitting his status, but a cottage. Situated neatly between Dawnstar Village and the harbor and made of wood no doubt imported from Lordaeron, the first words that came to mind were  _ quaint _ and  _ cute. _ It was the sort of house his sister would have loved.

(With the forests still regrowing, no construction that took place was allowed to use Quel’Thalas wood. Most of the wood used in the towns’ rebuilding projects had been imported from Kalimdor or, rarely, the forests of Silverpine.)

In the wake of the Scourge, Astalor had done all he could to aid the Crown. His lands had been repurposed for the growing of foodstuffs or cheaply rented to aid in the rebuilding. His manors had been opened for the housing of survivors, some still housing families who after ten years had not been able to return to the Dead Scar. His townhome in the city had long served as a hospital after the reclamation of the Court of the Sun, and Astalor had paid wages and stipends from his own coffers to ease the burden on the kingdom’s treasury. In the decade since, Astalor had spent little time in any one place, he and Auriel and the blood knights traveling where they had been most needed. 

Perhaps it shouldn’t have been a surprise that he had chosen a cottage as his home. He had lived in less. 

“Afternoon!” Rommath called, and Astalor, supervising a crew of elves and draenei on the roof, turned, his face splitting into a wide grin.

“Rommath!” His friend rushed over and embraced him warmly. “How are you feeling?”

“Don’t start,” Rommath groused. “I’m not an invalid.”

“Am I not allowed to worry for you?”

“I would rather you didn’t.”

“Well, pity. I do.” Astalor squinted in the sun, throwing his arm out in the direction of the cottage. “What do you think?”

“It reminds me of her,” Rommath said softly. The pale wood was the Light and its crimson tiled roof the fire, he thought. Astalor had begun a small garden to one side, various healing herbs already poking timidly through the dirt, and the little porch held a potted bloodberry bush, safe from the construction. The sigil of Light hung over the doorway, the same plain Amani wood symbol Auriel had hung over countless tents, its lacquer polished to high sheen and glinting in the sun. Astalor had been painting earlier, using not the liquid gold of the Warden’s manor and wealthy sin’dorei but a bright yellow, and long winding tendrils curled around the porch’s columns. 

“Mm.” Astalor was not looking at him, his eyes staring ahead but fixed on something Rommath could not see. “I promised her a home,” he murmured. “A long time ago, when all… all  _ this _ was over.” 

(He could easily see his sister on that porch, rolling bandages from scraps of clothing; or tending to that garden, speaking to the plants as if they could hear her. He could see her hammering the nail above the doorway and hanging that sigil, her small hand outstretched to brush over it as she stepped over the threshold. A silly superstition, admittedly, but she’d done it every time.)

Rommath nodded to himself. His sister would never have been happy in a Bloodsworn manor. Would have felt selfish and self-centered in even the home she had grown up in. This simple cottage would have just pushed her to the edge of her comfort, but only just. 

_ Many people have less, _ he could imagine her protesting. Could see in his mind’s eye every counter argument, every concession his friend had made. Could almost hear Astalor listing the ways in which this home had been built to serve others. 

“She would have loved it,” he said, laying a hand on Astalor’s shoulder. And Astalor took a shaky breath, arranging his mouth into a small smile, and they spoke no more of it.

Rommath watched for a time as Astalor directed the tile layers, until the shadows grew long and the sky orange and he sent them away, home to their dinners. Astalor invited him inside and Rommath acquiesced, and they spoke under the half finished roof of the state of the Grove and the work of the Shattered Sun, as Astalor served them a hearty meal of fish and bread and sweet sauce. Rommath told him of the meeting with the Horde, of Thrall and the new ambassadors. 

“The warchief came himself?” Astalor asked in surprise, and Rommath nodded. This was not a custom with which they were familiar. Sunstrider kings had long sent dignitaries, ambassadors, and speakers in their place, rarely granted audience outside of the Sunspire. The human kingdoms had been the same, and even the Amani chiefs demanded to be met on their own grounds. For  _ Thrall _ to have come to their own palace, to not have sent someone in his place… Rommath wasn’t quite sure as to what it all meant.

“Perhaps it’s orc custom?” Astalor suggested, and that was plausible. 

“Perhaps. Or a show of good faith,” Rommath countered. “Meant to reassure us. To impress that we and our plight are being taken seriously.” 

His friend cocked his head thoughtfully. “Is that not the point of ambassadors?” 

“One of them is a troll.”

And Astalor laughed. “I’m sure Halduron is  _ thrilled.” _

Rommath scoffed, “I thought we’d have a diplomatic incident.” Halduron had been a point of barely controlled fury throughout the dinner, retiring as soon as he was able. His hatred of trolls was well known. 

“He’s not that stupid,” Astalor reminded him. “I’m sure Lor’themar felt the same way. He was simply better at disguising it.”

(Few rangers had love of trolls.)

Rommath shrugged. “We’ve been told the troll is the cousin of the Darkspear chieftain,” he explained, “sent in good faith. He says the Darkspear hate the Amani as much as we do.”

(Cousins were often assigned important political duties, Rommath had come to learn. When the ruler in question was unable to fill a position personally, a cousin was often a gesture of faith, an unspoken message of  _ I send my blood to do what I cannot in this issue of great importance. _ That was how Theron had become Regent Lord, he believed.)

“Generous,” Astalor mused. “Perhaps the Darkspear will join us and eradicate the Amani menace.” Rommath snorted.

“Even if, I would think they’d be hard pressed to find any ranger willing to work with them.”

Astalor swirled the wine in his glass. “I would rather work with a troll, united against a common enemy, than a human,” he murmured. Even after ten years, the Alliance’s abandonment still hurt. 

(Rommath had greatly protested the alliance with the Undercity, citing its large population of undead  _ humans. _ Lor’themar had not listened, and Rommath hoped his judgement was sound.)

They sat for a moment, stewing in the treachery of humans, before Astalor shook his head, clearing it. “Let’s not dwell on old wounds,” he said quietly. He stood, clearing his dishes, and with a small wave of his hand they flew to a basin, already filled with warm water, and began washing themselves. 

“Right.”

“It’s about time I take my evening walk. Would you care to join me?” And as much as Rommath would, because he wanted his friend’s company, he could not intrude on whatever ritual had created for himself at his sister’s grave. For that was undoubtedly where Astalor would end up. Every night found him at the memorial for the fallen, just inside the Sunwell Grove, and Rommath felt that what Astalor said in the solace of the place should stay between him and whatever spirits remained. 

“I think I shall hire a hawkstrider,” he demurred. “The ride should clear my head.”

“As you like. Be wary of the murlocs － I’ve heard they’re getting rather nasty as of late.”

* * *

Rommath had not intended on visiting Kael when he’d first offered to accompany Neeluu back to Quel’Danas. He really hadn’t. (And that wasn’t even a lie.) He truly wished only to see Astalor, to speak with his dearest friend and discuss the new Horde alliance, to set eyes upon Astalor’s new home. 

But then Neeluu had spoken so… boldly. Had looked at him with luminous green eyes, so unabashed and open, her lips forming words he had never thought to hear from another living soul. Had confused him with her gentleness, her wet hand on his chest and face streaked with tears. 

He kicked at the dirt. 

Kael’s grave had grown over, no longer a mound of grave dirt but a small rise of soft green grass, the only indication of its existence a small burst of orange flowers. He wondered who had planted them.

(It had probably been Neeluu.)

“Why did it have to be you?” he asked into the sunset. 

_ Why did I have to fall in love with you? _

_ Why can’t I let you go? _

That day so long ago in the Small Court had been the end. He’d set eyes on a spoiled prince who hadn’t even wanted him, had cried out for the absent Astalor, and he’d never looked back. Fitting. 

No matter who had graced his bed through the centuries, at the back of his mind there was always Kael Kael  _ Kael. _ Always he told himself,  _ There’s a chance that he could love me. If I stay, if I am loyal, if I love him the best above all else, there’s a chance. _ And Kael had loved him, in his own way. It was Rommath who he had listened to, Rommath who he’d turned to in hours of need. Rommath who he ran to with joy and Rommath he confided in. Only Rommath, no one else. They had been like the great  _ norfals _ in the epics, their bond infallible, unbreakable. 

(But never had it been what Rommath had craved. Never had  _ norfal _ become  _ arifal. _ Never had he been Kael’s beloved.)

“I gave up everything for you,” Rommath hurled at the flowers. “ _ Everything.” _ Yet Kael had never returned the gesture. Kael’s heart had always lain with Jaina Proudmoore, until the very end.

_ I gave up everyone for you. _

(He had never been able to love Nallorath. Nallorath, who held him tenderly, whose eyes were warm and kind. With Nallorath, he could have been happy, could have had the romance he had always dreamed of with a Sunstrider prince. And yet, when the prince had spoken those fatal three words, Rommath’s heart had sank. When Nallorath had whispered in his ear, Kael’s face had flashed in his mind.)

Rommath was a broken, beaten thing, his wasted heart sold long ago to his beloved sunshine prince. It had never wanted anyone else. He had been treated better, loved harder, cherished more by Nallorath and others, and he had let them all go for a prince who would never return his affections. He almost understood, in that moment, why Halduron whored himself so, craving a love － even one so fabricated and empty － in a facsimile of the one he had lost. Perhaps Halduron, more than any other, understood the very tearing of his soul as Kael had left this world.

“Why did it have to be you?” Rommath repeated to the air, staring hard at the grave. Kael, of course, had no answer for him.

The hawkstrider he’d borrowed chirruped from somewhere behind him, ripping up patches of grass as it looked for fat grubs or mice or whatever it was hawkstriders did. In a brief moment of fury, Rommath wanted to wring the beast’s neck.

If only he’d said something to Kael when he’d been alive. 

(Kael would have rejected him, if he could have been convinced at all Rommath wasn’t teasing. And perhaps Rommath could have moved on. Perhaps he could have had the life Nallorath had promised him, or perhaps he would not be rendered so confused when Neeluu…

He wasn’t going to think about Neeluu.)

All Rommath had ever wanted was to stand beside his prince, to bask in Kael’s radiance as he shone over the forests of Quel’Thalas. He would have stood tall and proud, his king’s constant shadow, loved above all others. 

(But Kael had sold himself to the Burning Legion. Had dashed that dream against the crumbling walls of Tempest Keep and never looked back.)

Rommath sank to his knees, squeezed his eyes shut. Surely nothing on Azeroth was as cruel as this. Even Astalor would have been the better choice than Kael.

_ I love you so much still that I wanted my life to end. To join you in the Shadowlands, wherever you may be. To stand with you there, at least, until the end of time. _

He pressed his fists to his eyes and wept.

* * *

Astalor’s home was comfortable, even without a roof. Two simple rooms, with a large table and small bed, and a tub for washing. Rommath chose to sleep on a cot, rather than retire to his childhood bedroom in the Warden’s manor. He was exhausted and worn, and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

He dreamt of Kael, as he often did. Kael and his white gold hair, the sky blue eyes. Kael with his easy laugh and mischievous smile and the light he’d cast about him. 

He dreamt of Nallorath, the prince who’d loved him. His silver eyes screwed tight in rage as he’d set Belo’vir’s villa aflame, dooming himself and the Scourge who’d sought to claim him. The fires that seethed through Feth’s Way, consuming everything in their path until there was nothing left. 

Rommath dreamt of his sister, of Auriel in plate and steel, her great broadsword cleaving through the undead horde. Auriel, the Light coursing through her, surging through the blade and ripping the Scourge to ash. The lost blade buried among the bones and ash, never found.

Kael, skin pallid and grey, cheekbones jutting so sharply. The fel crystal embedded in his chest, pulsing with each beat of his heart, staring at him in the Magister’s Terrace. Mouth open, fangs exposed. The lank hair, and the fire that burned sickly in his eyes. Kael raising a hand engulfed in flame, except this time Rommath didn’t raise his own. Did not defend against the blaze. He let it consume him, sear his skin and burn his hair, and he deserved it. He deserved all the fury Kael could throw at him. He should have accepted, he should have stood with him. 

Rommath dreamt of Kael, and Nallorath, and Auriel, and woke with tears in his eyes.

* * *

He meant to say goodbye before he departed for the city. It was the right thing, the polite thing to do. He made it to the manor, stared up at its suddenly imposing walls and red roof, before he was stopped.

“No entrance, Grand Magister,” said Tyrael Flamekissed. “The Warden isn’t here.”

(He wanted to protest that the phrase  _ no entrance _ did not apply to him. 

He was a coward.)

“Of course she is,” Rommath said irritably, “because here  _ you _ are.” 

Flamekissed’s eyes narrowed. “No entrance,” he repeated. 

Rommath sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. One of these days he would give the good captain a smack. “I would like to give my regards before returning to Silvermoon,” he snapped.

“I will tell her.” Flamekissed didn’t move. 

Rommath wasn’t in the mood to play these games. “Would you bar the Regent Lord?” he demanded. 

Flamekissed scoffed. “Of course not.”

“Where he goes, I go. I’ve told you often enough.” 

(Neeluu really ought to train her guards better, he thought. Or replace their captain. Flamekissed’s behavior had always bordered on unprofessional, and he was quickly approaching a line he should never cross.)

Flamekissed stood firm. “I don’t like you, Grand Magister,” he growled, as if that explained anything. “I never have.”

“I’m aware,” Rommath deadpanned. “Step aside.”

Flamekissed didn’t. “I don’t want you causing the Warden undue distress. You’ve done enough.”

“I’ve done nothing,” Rommath protested indignantly. The Dawnblade captain shot him a withering glare. 

“I’ve been in service to the Lady Neeluu for twelve hundred years,” Flamekissed snarled. “I should think I know her better. I am closer to her than you will ever be.”

(Rommath suppressed a childish impulse to roll his eyes. Spellblades were so dramatic.)

“It would be rude to leave the isle without saying goodbye,” he said slowly, as if Flamekissed were a small, and rather stupid, child.

“She will understand,” the captain huffed. “You’re often rude.” 

(What Rommath wouldn’t give to be able to fire the man.)

“Your position has made you cocky and insubordinate,” he said through clenched teeth. “The Warden would be ashamed of this behavior.”

And that seemed to really set the spellblade off. “Don’t you  _ dare _ presume what my lady feels! Take yourself home, Grand Magister! We’ve no need of you here.”

The door opened behind him, and Flamekissed whirled. It was only Karynna, Neeluu’s maid. Cautiously, the other elf asked, “What are you yelling about?” and at seeing Rommath, swiftly bowed her head. “Grand Magister.”

“Nothing,” Flamekissed said quickly.

“Kindly tell the Warden her captain will not allow me to bid her goodbye,” Rommath snapped, “and to please excuse my rudeness.” 

Karynna shot Flamekissed a look Rommath could not interpret, but seeing as her station was well below both his and Rommath’s (and she was  _ properly _ trained), she said nothing to him. “Of course, Grand Magister.” 

“Good day to you, Karynna,” he said, as pleasantly as he could. With a scowl, he added, “Captain Flamekissed.” (He at least could remember his manners.)

Flamekissed said nothing as Karynna bowed again, and as he walked away, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the spellblade speaking sharply to the maid. No matter. A direct order from the Grand Magister outranked whatever drivel the Dawnblade Captain spouted to someone like Karynna.

(Perhaps he would tell Neeluu himself of Flamekissed’s insubordination when he next saw her. That ought to take the man down a peg.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had planned to include a scene where Neeluu has established a friendship with the North Sea murlocs (rememeber I've divided the Quel'Danas murlocs between North Sea and Greengill), after having given them crabs a billion chapters/several months ago. I did SO MUCH RESEARCH about murlocs for this scene. Notice how there are no murlocs in the final chapter. 
> 
> They've gone the way of Salandria and her many cut scenes. T_T
> 
> #FreeSalandria


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rommath learns a secret about Vor'na, and he and Kael hang out with Thalorien Dawnseeker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not edited. Writer's block and depression have been kicking my ass. I've also been playing some Final Fantasy 14 and desperately want viera in WoW now. It'll never happen, but... *shrug*
> 
> This chapter could also be called "Local idiots drink to stop feeling feelings."

_Dear Rommath,_

_How long it has been! I hear you have been appointed apprentice to the Grand Magister. I’ve always known you would rise high, my friend._

_My sister says Dalaran has grown dull and dumb without your witty commentary, our prince a slave to boredom and bar hopping. I’ve heard many a tale of Kael indulging with dwarves and their famous stouts. The Kirin Tor shall topple if he continues in this way. I fear he has taken your leaving quite badly, and Telonicus’s as well. Perhaps it is time he come home? I say as your friend that our prince requires a firm hand to guide him, and though I love her, my sister is not that. She has not your harsh tongue nor your rigid spine, and I fear Kael sees her as only a shackle to a life he does not yet desire._

_Pity that the Sunstriders were cursed with magic, and you as well, my friend, for you could have studied on Quel’Danas in the ways of the Light or the warrior. Had I not been given my own birthright, nothing would be so sweet as a life by the sword._

_I hear, with his recent appointment in the Sanctum, that your Telonicus is to be married in due time. After the wedding, I extend to you an invitation to the isle. We have much to discuss, and with your recent apprenticeship, I fear our carefree days are few in number._

_I look forward to your visit, and eagerly await your reply._

_Regards, Thalorien_

* * *

“Ah, Rommath.”

The Grand Magister’s office was full when Rommath entered, fresh from a quiet breakfast with Nallorath. (They had eaten in bed, Nall serving him as if Rommath were the prince and Nall the son of a minor lord. Never had bloodberry jam been misused so.) He straightened his spine upon seeing the visitors.

“High Priest.” Rommath bowed his head. Vandellor and Belo’vir were old friends, he knew. Though they had met only a handful of times, Rommath liked the man, found him soft and comforting. 

Vandellor chuckled. Though Belo’vir had attempted to instill in Rommath that such formality was not necessary in private, he had clung to it. In a court as cutthroat as theirs, one could not afford the slightest misstep. “Good morning, Rommath. I hear you’re doing well at court. That’s very reassuring.”

“Thank you, sir.” Both Vandellor and Belo’vir were getting on in years, both of an age with the king. When Anasterian passed and Kael ascended the throne, Vandellor and Belo’vir would vacate their positions, if they still lived. As had been the custom of Sunstrider kings since the time of Dath’Remar, Kael would take the throne with a new Grand Magister and High Priest, trained extensively in the ways of the old, so that they may advise him until the end of his days. 

With Vandellor was a woman Rommath had never before seen. She had chestnut brown hair pulled away from her face, neatly pinned behind her head. She wore the white robes of Chapel priestesses, spun of mooncloth and embroidered with ivory thread. He felt something _different_ about her, though at the moment, he couldn’t say what.

“－you to Liadrin?” Vandellor was saying, and the woman － Liadrin － stood. Bowed her head primly. She had the tanned sort of look of an elf who worked outside. 

(Rommath had heard of Liadrin. Raised by the High Priest from a young age, she had followed him on the path of Light and become a fine priestess. Belo’vir often spoke fondly of her.)

He inclined his head in greeting.

“Liadrin has just completed her journeyman training,” Vandellor added, “and is ready to settle down in apprenticeship to me.”

Liadrin smiled wryly. “I never said I would _settle down.”_ The High Priest laughed.

“Of course not,” he chuckled. “You know what I mean.”

“I thought it best you both meet,” Belo’vir explained to Rommath. “You will be working quite closely during Kael’s reign, and it does make things move smoothly if you are friendly.”

(Vandellor and Belo’vir seemed to be the best of friends, and the king trusted them implicitly.)

Liadrin shocked him then, striding forward and sticking out her hand. A common gesture. A _ranger’s_ gesture. “I hope we are able to work together as well as our masters,” she said.

(Rommath brushed aside his momentary wonder. Many journeyman priests were assigned to the Farstriders, and Liadrin had probably learned the greeting from them.)

“I as well,” he said politely, and clasped her hand. It was smaller than his, but wiry and strong. A working woman’s hand. 

(And he understood then, the _difference_ he’d felt. As his fingers brushed against her bare skin, he understood. Liadrin had been chosen by the Light. Her very skin thrummed with a faint power that was neither elf nor arcane. As she shook his hand, her grip firm, in his eyes she became, for a moment, the exact image of his sister, and when they let go, his palm tingled with the ghost of the Light.)

This woman would make a fine High Priestess.

“－must lunch together,” the Grand Magister was saying, and Vandellor was replying back, his voice softer, but Rommath wasn’t listening.

(He had never truly believed his mother, when she’d proclaimed his sister as _chosen._ He hadn’t understood. To him, Auriel was simply his sister, steadfast and gentle and kind. The warmth he felt from her, the serenity, he had always assumed came from the very fact that they were blood. That he loved and trusted her above all others. He never expected his devoted mother to be anything more than simply faithful, but Liadrin… His mother had been right. His sister was _special,_ and he knew without doubt that Liadrin was too.)

He decided, before even sitting down to afternoon meal, that he liked this Liadrin. That if anyone could be so similar to his sister, could radiate warmth and comfort and Light like Auriel, that they must be good. And Liadrin did not disappoint. She was shrewd and capricious, and sarcastic and witty. She was demure and humble, did not boast of her prowess and blushed at Belo’vir’s compliments. 

If she was to be Kael’s High Priestess, his reign would be long indeed. 

* * *

“She seems fantastic,” Rommath told Nallorath. 

Nallorath was amused. “So you’ve said.”

“Belo’vir speaks highly of her,” he continued. “She has trained with the Farstriders, lived in the city, and speaks Common.”

“Does she now?” The prince raised an eyebrow. “Seems to me you’ve taken quite a shine to her.”

Rommath paused. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“No?” Nall pouted. “All I’ve heard for days is _Liadrin this_ and _Liadrin that._ ” He sniffed dramatically. “I’m beginning to think you _prefer_ her.”

Rommath rolled his eyes. Placed a hand on Nall’s cheek and drew the prince to him. “Never,” he swore, and kissed him. 

Nallorath made a small noise. “The way you go on about her,” he teased. “One would think you’re infatuated.”

He snorted. “When you’ve spent your life wrangling underachievers, competency and overqualification are a relief,” he assured him. “Nothing more.”

“Good.” Nall’s own hand cupped the back of Rommath’s head, and they kissed again. “I was beginning to get jealous.”

“You’ve nothing to be jealous of,” Rommath murmured against his lips. “I’ve no desire for her.” He tangled his fingers in Nall’s golden hair, twirling the silky strands and tugging lightly. Nall groaned quietly.

“No desire for anyone else,” the prince agreed, his lips ghosting over Rommath’s cheek. He shifted closer, pressing his thigh against Rommath’s. The divan seemed to shrink in size as Nall draped himself over the mage, nuzzling his neck and mouthing at his pulse.

“Mm.” Rommath’s breath hitched. Nall felt like fire along his skin, and he keened as the prince licked at the sensitive spot just behind his ear. His hand skittered along Nallorath’s side, the thin fabric of his robes inadequate protection from Rommath’s hunger. His fingers went to the slash at the prince’s waist, working at the knot with one hand.

“Who else could make you feel like this?” Nall breathed, and they were spread out on the divan now, Rommath laid out beneath him. (When had that happened? Nall had a way about him, something that made Rommath react excitedly, becoming pliant under the prince’s touch.) He ached to be touched as the sash gave way, as Nall’s robes fell open. 

He exhaled. “No one.” And Nall was pressed against him, lips trailing along the line of his jaw and hips flush. He was hard through his trousers and the realization sent all the blood to Rommath’s groin. 

“That’s right,” the prince murmured. “Only I can make you feel so good.”

“Only you,” Rommath sighed. Nall kissed down his neck, licked along his collarbones, and Rommath wanted more. Needed more. Needed Nall’s hands on him, needed skin to skin. He slipped his own hands under Nall’s robe, dragged his nails lightly along his sides. Nall gasped, eyes fluttering closed.

“By the _Sunwell!_ Can’t you do this somewhere else?!”

Rommath jumped, his groin rutting against Nall’s and sending a shock down his spine. He swung his head to the side, wide eyes falling upon a scowling Vor’na.

“ _Animals,”_ she hissed. “Anyone could see you!”

Nall chuckled against Rommath’s chest, unfazed. “I doubt anyone will stumble into the gardens at this time of night.” Nonetheless he pulled back, his eyes sparkling. Tied his robe closed once more. 

(Rommath very quickly scrambled upright, face flushed.)

“I did!”

“You live here,” Nallorath said calmly. 

“And Belo’vir!” She had come to drink, Rommath saw, as the three of them often did － as he and Nallorath had been doing before… _that_ － and she dropped into a chair, pouring herself a glass from the good Dalaran red on the table.

“Belo’vir doesn’t sit on the veranda at night.” Nall lounged on the divan, his robes concealing the bulge Rommath knew to be there. He was completely unbothered, at ease in a way Rommath could never hope to emulate.

“You best be thankful he doesn’t,” Vor’na snapped. “He would certainly have words about your corrupting his apprentice.”

(Rommath could not possibly be redder.)

But Nall only laughed. “Belo’vir knows of my inclinations and does not mind them,” he said airily. He poured himself two goblets of wine, passing one. “And you wholeheartedly encouraged Rommath’s corruption.”

(He really didn’t want to talk about his _corruption._ )

“Are you alright?” he said quickly, taking the proffered goblet. “You seem in a mood.”

“Vor’na is not fond of Liadrin, I’m afraid,” Nallorath explained. “She is always grumpy when－”

“I am not _grumpy,”_ their colleague groused. 

“You’re certainly not pleased.”

“Why do you dislike Liadrin?” Rommath asked curiously. Vor’na’s face darkened, her scowl carved into her face. 

“That’s a subject for another time.” Nall shot him a look that said clearly this was something that was not discussed. “Best not to dwell on old hatreds. Vor’na! Perhaps you may assist me on the morrow? I am writing a list of raw materials to order for the Sanctum. I’m sure the Magisterium is in need of a few things as well.”

Vor’na said nothing, jaw clenched, but merely nodded after a moment. When Nallorath poured her a drink of her own she accepted and downed it without ceremony in one long gulp.

“Let us play a few hands of cards,” the prince suggested. “I suspect winning a round or two will put you in a better mood.”

After utterly destroying them both and flouncing off to bed, Rommath turned to the prince. “I have never seen Vor’na so angry,” he confessed. “The look in her eyes was frightening.”

Nallorath smiled grimly. “Vor’na hates Liadrin,” he said plainly. “She was once a very good priestess, and there were rumors Vandellor would choose her to succeed him.” Carefully he picked up the fallen cards and began shuffling them absent-mindedly. 

“What happened?”

“Liadrin happened.” He frowned. 

(Rommath needed no further explanation. Having met the woman, having felt the Light emanating from her, he understood.)

“Liadrin hadn’t even begun her journeyman century, and Vor’na’s had long finished. She was furious. Cast aside her position and petitioned Belo’vir for admittance to the Magisterium. I’ve no idea how she managed to change disciplines, but…” He shrugged. Vor’na was a _very_ competent mage.

“That’s impossible,” Rommath objected. Light and arcane were not weapons one could pick and choose. They simply _were._ For Vor’na to be proficient in both suggested a strong bloodline, or illicit means…

“I haven’t pried,” Nallorath said, his tone a warning. “It was Belo’vir’s decision, and he took her. It’s as simple as that.”

* * *

“I do pity Telonicus,” Thalorien murmured. 

“Hush,” Rommath chided. Kael laughed, the tone off.

“What? He did not lie. His wife _does_ look like a troll.”

(Rommath thought the criticism harsh. Telonicus’s new bride was no beauty, but _troll_ she was not. Trolls were far uglier.)

“It was a… nice wedding,” he said half heartedly. In truth, the affair had depressed him. The bride in her gold silks radiated with happiness, nearly obscuring Telonicus’s melancholy. (Whether she truly enjoyed herself or was merely a good actress, Rommath didn’t know.) Capernian, in a provocative pale blue number as she dared, had sulked the entire afternoon, and shouted at Neeluu for treating her “delicately.” And Neeluu…

Well. She had turned up in emeralds about her ears and neck, a perfect match for the ring on her finger, and giggled demurely at the faintest mention of her own betrothal. Kael had danced with her, the two of them perfectly coordinated, and Rommath’s stomach had churned so badly he’d felt he would be sick.

“It was a fiasco,” Thalorien corrected. “I suspect the affair hasn’t ended then?”

(For one who had never set foot in Dalaran, the Swordbearer knew a frightening amount of gossip about those who had. Rommath suspected the Lady Neeluu to be the leak.)

“Of course not,” Kael said dismissively. “I think Capernian hoped Telonicus would break his betrothal and go to her father to abscond her of hers.”

Thalorien shook his head sadly. “Duty is hard. I do not know which would have been the better outcome.”

“Telonicus and Capernian should have been allowed to marry,” Rommath conceded, “but I do not think it would have been good, politically or socially.”

Kael snorted. “Duty and politics are bullshit,” he muttered. Thalorien raised an eyebrow, and Rommath pursed his lips.

“Without either, the kingdom falls apart,” he said diplomatically.

“I would rather marry for love.” And his prince suddenly sounded very far away.

_As would I, my prince._

“You love my sister, do you not?” Thalorien asked. From another, such a question was a trap. From Thalorien, friend from childhood and no stranger to court politics, it was merely a question. A luxury, in their vicious court. 

After a long moment, Kael murmured, “Of course. But Neeluu…” 

(As much as he disliked Jaina Proudmoore, Rommath’s heart had been with Kael for days. Terenas Menethil had announced his son’s engagement to Jaina, and there had been much fanfare in Dalaran. Neeluu had commented, her nose wrinkling, at the difficulties of even walking with her friend in the city this past week, so accosted was Jaina by well wishers.)

Their friend reached over and clapped Kael on the shoulder. “I understand,” he said quietly. “You and I have always been alike, my friend.” Disgruntled over their birthrights, wild and rakish, Thalorien and Kael had always had much in common. Thalorien Dawnseeker would have loved nothing more than to be an anonymous Dawnblade, Rommath knew, or a common soldier. Not the bearer of Quel’Delar and future Warden of the Sunwell. 

“You?” Kael looked at him. “How would you possibly understand my position?”

And Thalorien cuffed him gently about the ear. “Idiot. Do you never listen to me?”

(Rommath listened. He knew Thalorien to have a secret love, one neither his father nor the king would ever permit him to marry. Not with his high status. If she were found, she would be sent away.)

“We are both terribly important to our people,” Thalorien lamented. “Which means we must make terribly important marriages to other terribly important people.”

Kael sighed. “If only Jaina had been an elf.”

“I promise you my sister is a good person,” Thalorien told him. “She will make you forget this Jaina Proudmoore.”

“Mm.” Kael did not seem so certain.

(Rommath was not certain either, but he prayed Thalorien was right. Jaina was no fit match for Kael, no matter her status in the human kingdoms, and he wanted Kael to understand that. He had given his opinion on Neeluu to Anasterian because he _knew_ Kael. While his prince may not love Neeluu as he did Jaina, he did love her. Enough to keep his destructive, impulsive behavior in check. His betrothal to Neeluu kept him from storming Lordaeron and challenging Arthas Menethil for Jaina’s hand, and in time, perhaps he would forget her. Would love Neeluu better than her.

Rommath tried not to think about how he wished it was he Kael loved. He would make his prince forget about Jaina. He would have done anything for Kael to look at him the way he looked at Jaina…)

“Rommath?”

“What?” He jolted. Someone had been speaking to him. 

Thalorien.

“We need drinks,” the Swordbearer repeated.

“I could use a damned drink,” Kael muttered.

“One last hurrah before duty catches up to us.” Thalorien was already on his feet. “Come. We shall raid the wine cellar like when we were children.” 

“We could just ask the servants,” Rommath scoffed. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” Thalorien’s gaze shifted to their friend. “Kael?”

Kael huffed. “I like it,” he said, a smile plastered on his face. “Rommath, join us in this quest.”

(He didn’t think this would end well. None of Thalorien’s drunken escapades did.)

“You _will_ drink,” Thalorien said, before Rommath could object. “You are in my home and I order you to enjoy yourself.”

Rommath rolled his eyes. “You can’t order me to do anything.”

“I can,” said Kael. “We shall raid the cellar, and you shall drink, and we will forget this whole miserable business for one night.”

(He sighed. A heartbroken Kael was not a Kael he could deny.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. This chapter was hard. Like, really hard. I rewrote a scene, deleted a lot of stuff... Sigh. We're coming up on the end of The Good Years. Shit's about to get messy. Next chapter might be a time skip (but still the past), I'm not sure. 
> 
> It's funny. I used to be super into the past chapters. Then Arthas came. That Arthas Menethil just has to ruin everything, doesn't he? XD


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Scourge comes to Quel'Thalas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, y'all. I've suffered this week through depression, two migraines, and writer's block but I'm here. I couldn't figure out how to write this chapter.
> 
> This chapter takes place sometime AFTER the last chapter, but still BEFORE the present. A mini skip within the time skip.

_ The undead march on Quel’Thalas. _

Never had only five words brought so much devastation.

* * *

Rommath sat in a hovel. It had once been a fine house, perhaps that of a noble or minor royal, but now was mostly ash and charred walls. He was dirty, his face streaked with soot and sweat, his robes torn. Rubble littered the ground, and it was not safe where he was, but he needed a moment’s rest. He was so, so tired. 

How had this happened? Where was their warning? Lordaeron lay to the south, had been run through by the undead army, and not one runner had been to Silvermoon. No human had come to give them time to prepare. No. Three days ago, a Farstrider had come from  _ Fairbreeze _ seeking audience with the king. And Rommath had been pulled from his bed by a rough hand, Belo’vir shouting  _ Get up, Rommath! Get up! _

Anasterian had dispatched the guard throughout the city, banging on doors and shouting in the dead of night to collect Silvermoon’s most vulnerable, the children and the elderly. Rommath had organized a small contingent of boats and sent them off to the Hinterlands. (Rommath prayed they had reached shore and the Wildhammer clan safely.) Nallorath and Vor’na had been sent to organize the magi. 

Anasterian had been spirited away to Quel’Danas, seeking refuge with Warden Dawnseeker and his Dawnblades. Belo’vir had stood with the most powerful magisters at the city gates. Ban’dinoirel would not fail, he had said, but he would defend the city if he must. 

The army of the undead had come － led by Arthas Menethil. 

Rommath sighed, his ribs aching. He had fallen at some point, he didn’t remember. He hadn’t seen anyone － Telonicus, Nallorath, Vor’na, Belo’vir － in… He couldn’t remember that either. He hadn’t seen anyone  _ alive _ in what felt like days. 

Arthas had swept through the city. He was even now marching on Quel’Danas. Rommath didn’t know what the mad prince wanted. He didn’t know anything anymore.

Carefully, he hauled himself up. Carefully, so as not to attract unwanted attention. 

(Thank the Light and the Sunwell Kael was safe in Dalaran.)

He pressed a hand to his bruised ribs, wincing. The hand was bloody － he wasn’t sure if it was his blood. There had been  _ so many _ deaths… He’d caused some of them. 

(But were they really deaths if the person was already dead?)

Farstriders’ Square. They had agreed, at the war council － he had really been at a  _ war council _ only a few days past － that the Royal Barracks would serve as safehouse, should the city fall. Well. The city had fallen, and Rommath burned a lot of it. He needed to get to Farstriders’ Square. He needed to see who else yet lived. 

With difficulty, he climbed out of his hovel. 

* * *

_ The city is fallen.  _

_ The Convocation is dead. _

_ The king is dead. _

_ The Sunwell is fallen. _

Every new messenger brought worsening news. 

Ranger Lord Lor’themar Theron held the city, running himself ragged. A large wet, gaping wound marred one side of his face, bleeding through bandages haphazardly applied. He had managed to secure the eastern half of the city, Farstriders and city guard patrolling at all hours. 

Kael had sent word that he was leaving Dalaran. Rommath and Lor’themar had met him as close to the city gates as they dared, a full squadron of Farstriders keeping the remnants of the undead at bay. Astalor had been with him, and Rommath had been so relieved to see them both he’d wept.

Kael wept now. Now that the orders had been issued, the proclamations made, and soldiers dispatched to find his father’s body, he crumbled. Safe in the captain’s quarters of the Royal Barracks, Kael sobbed bitterly at the loss of his father, his city, and Rommath could do nothing but watch. He pulled Kael to him, embraced him tightly. He hadn’t bathed in days, hadn’t had time to even change from his filthy robes, but so consumed by grief was Kael that he made no mention. He clung to Rommath, achingly, horribly alive and wailed, and nothing Rommath said made any difference.

“Lia!” 

Rommath’s mouth snapped shut as a shout erupted from Theron. He, Rommath, Kael, Astalor, and an elf named Halduron Brightwing had been gathered together, speaking in hurried whispers. Rommath was to lead a team into the unclaimed parts of the city, to search for survivors and eradicate any undead. To make headway in the wresting control of Silvermoon from the Scourge. He was anxious. They still had not found Belo’vir, nor Nallorath. He had word of Vor’na and none of Telonicus. But Lor’themar’s shout interrupted their planning. 

The ranger took off, long hair flying, and Rommath looked over his shoulder to see him rush toward a woman stumbling through the barracks. She looked exhausted, and bloodied besides, but her eyes lit up as Theron gathered her in his arms. 

“Lia! Oh － thank the Light － Lia,” Theron sputtered, and the woman －  _ Liadrin! _ － clutched at him, erupting in harsh, gasping sobs. Beside Rommath, the ranger Brightwing made a strained noise in the back of his throat and turned away.

“Lor’themar!” Her hand flew to his uninjured cheek. “You’re － you’re  _ alive _ !” And Theron held her and kissed her and kissed her, kissed away her concerns for his wound and her tears and she collapsed into him, finally worn out. 

“She’s sleeping,” Theron said tiredly. He had taken Liadrin to the tiny room he had claimed for himself, saw to her wounds. She had apparently insisted on seeing to his eye, as it no longer wept blood and pus but was freshly dressed, the bandages stark white against the grime on his skin. 

“Quel’Danas?” Kael pressed. “What has happened?” They had heard nothing, only seen the implosion of the Sunwell as a faint outline in the sky. Even now, it swirled a sickly green, and something felt strongly  _ wrong _ deep in Rommath’s bones. Liadrin was the first, only, survivor that they had yet seen. 

Theron shook his head. 

“Fallen,” he said, confirming what they’d already known. “Vandellor is dead. Belo’vir… Belo’vir teleported her before Arthas reached the Sunwell. He’s probably dead.” 

(Rommath felt his chest constrict.)

“I think he tried to send her here but… she ended up in the Exchange.” He shrugged listlessly. “Close enough, I suppose…”

Brightwing, his face a mix of emotions Rommath could not decipher, nodded automatically. “I’m glad she’s okay,” he told Theron, his voice hollow. 

Kael moaned and put his head in his hands. Rommath knew he’d been hoping for news. A contradictory report about his father, perhaps. (They  _ had _ only heard secondhand accounts, after all.) He wanted to reach out, to comfort him once more, but he felt rooted to the spot. 

A warm hand －  _ alive _ － touched his arm. A soft voice said somewhere to his left, “I’m sorry about Belo’vir.” Astalor’s voice. He swallowed around the lump in his throat.

A hand shot out of the remains of a ruined house, and Rommath  _ screamed _ as it caught him. He spun, hands aflame, praying that this corpse was not someone he knew.

“Wait! － Don’t! － I’m alive!” came a shriek. “Don’t attack! － I’m alive!” 

His eyes focused, and he swung his hands up, up, up, away from the body － the  _ elf _ － before him, the fire dying on his tingling skin, and he swore he had died as well because standing before him was  _ his sister. _

His sister stood in the ruins of the city, her hair singed, robes ripped, but  _ there. _ “Come inside, It’s not safe out here!” she was saying, but Rommath wasn’t listening. He felt as though he were moving in slow motion, watching her eyes grow round with recognition as he seized her by the arm and  _ pulled, _ crushed her to him. She smelled like sweat and Light and dirt, and she breathed hard against him, her lithe body warm and  _ alive. _

“ _ Rommath!” _ she gasped, her arms flying around him. They stood there in the rubble, shoulders heaving and hearts beating wildly, arms around each other as Theron and Liadrin had stood not long ago, and Rommath never wanted to let her go.

Auriel shrieked as she entered the blackened hollow that was once a house, her hands flying to her face, and Rommath charged, every nerve on fire, but he found no one. There were no undead surging towards them, no crazed citizens. There were bodies on the floor but they were charred, burnt beyond undeath. They would not rise. 

“It’s alright,” his sister breathed. “I’m… I’m fine.” Carefully they picked their way through the carnage, looking for survivors. Rommath was not hopeful. 

And then he saw it. 

Slumped on the floor, smoldering gently. Surrounded by a ring of bodies － undead, most likely － from where they had poured in through the veranda. He could identify the body only by its jewelry, the many rings on its fingers. The phoenix signet. 

Nallorath. 

All of his beautiful golden hair had been burned away, his skin blackened and crumbling. His robes were in tatters, the fancy mageweave embroidery gone. 

_ Nallorath. _

Rommath didn’t realize he’d made a sound until his sister appeared at his side, her grip firm on his arm. A low moan rose in his throat, a strangled sob. Desperately, he fought against it. He could not fall apart now. He could not.

(Visions of Nallorath flashed through his mind. Laughing, smirking, devious Nall. Eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Swearing violently at another mistake in calculation. Face open and unlined and peaceful in sleep.)

“Rommath.” His sister’s voice was urgent. He didn’t know how long they’d been standing there. The shadows were different now, not in the same places they were before. “Rommath, we have to go.” 

Right.

Because they were in the middle of Belo’vir’s villa. In their destroyed city. The undead. The survivors. 

Right.

Telonicus had been found. Auriel was nursing him in the makeshift infirmary near the city gates, with his wife. Once he could be moved, they would be transported to the Bloodsworn apartments in the Court of the Sun. Astalor had selflessly given it for use in treating and housing the wounded. It took desperately needed pressure off the Royal Barracks, which had become overrun and anarchic. 

No news from the human kingdoms. Not a single soldier in aid. Kael drafted a message declaring their alliance at an end. He would send it once they could spare an envoy. Theron argued with him, argued that they could not afford to break treaties at such a dark hour, and Kael screamed that the humans had broken it first.

“Where are they, Lor’themar?!” Kael screeched, sweeping his arm over the ruins of their city. “Where is Lordaeron? Alterac? Stromgarde? Gilneas? They  _ abandoned _ us!” 

What was left of the city was in chaos. Survivors trickled in at all hours. Rommath hadn’t slept in days, and he felt the exhaustion all the way to the ends of his hair. A growing sense of dread plagued him, and he could not place his finger on  _ why. _

“Auriel,” he called, picking his way through the wounded and the dying and the Farstrider guard. “Auriel, come. You must sleep sometime.”

His sister ignored him. She bore terrible dark circles beneath her eyes, and her lips were pale. She pressed them together and continued rolling bandages, each one ripped from what once was a fine robe. 

“Auriel,” he said again, more urgently. He reached over her shoulder and maneuvered the strip of silk out of reach.

“There’s no  _ time, _ Rommath.” And her voice was sharp despite her fatigue. She straightened, threw her shoulders back. “These people need me.”

“ _ I _ need you,” he threw back, frowning, and he knew it was selfish and wrong but he couldn’t stop the words even if he’d wanted to. “Can you just… Auriel, can you  _ stop? _ For one moment. Just one. Please.” He hated the tone in his voice. The wobble. “Sleep. Eat something.”

His sister turned in her seat, laid a hand on his arm. “Rommath.” He felt his muscles loosen, the fog lift from his mind. A small wave of tranquility, a brief respite from the stress and the worry and the grief, washed over him. “I’m not going anywhere,” his sister murmured. “But these people need my help much more than you do.”

“Auriel.” He tried to argue. His sister was a healer, capable and chosen, and all he wanted from her was to hide in a boarded room. They’d had no word of their family － their parents and brothers. For all he knew, she was the only family he had left. But the serenity washed over him again, and he scowled.

“You can’t… you can’t just…” His tongue felt fat in his mouth.

“You need sleep,” his sister said, removing her hand. “You can afford it.” She reached for the shredded robe once more, tore a new swatch from it. “I will be fine.”

Rommath shook his head to clear it, but he still felt foggy. (And how  _ dare _ she use her powers on him so.)

“Sleep,” his sister impressed. “I will nap here and there as I am able.”

“And eat,” he groused. “When have you last eaten?”

“I have no time to eat.”

“Sister!” came a wretched voice, and Auriel’s ears twitched. “Sister, where…?”

“I’ll try to eat something,” she promised, standing. “But  _ they _ are my priority, not my stomach.” Still holding her strip of cloth, she padded into the next room. “I’m here,” she said softly, and Rommath saw her kneel. “It’s alright. What hurts?”

* * *

In the end he fell. After five days on his feet, darting amongst the ruins of the western half of the city, rounding up survivors and burning corpses, dispatching healers and mages and running to and fro from the Court of the Sun to the Silvermoon Inn where his sister had set up shop with the survivors pouring in from all reaches of Quel’Thalas, he finally collapsed. He finally slept. 

_ He lay in bed in Belo’vir’s villa, naked and warm and the sheets falling along the line of his thigh. Nallorath lay behind him, pressed so close. His breath was hot in Rommath’s ear as he nibbled along the shell, one finger tracing circles down his ribs. Rommath sighed, content. _

_ “How is it you’re so unsatisfied?” he asked, his lips twisting into a smile. “Did I disappoint?” Nallorath chuckled, his voice low and husky. _

_ “Not at all, dalah’surfal. I am merely greedy.” He spread his palm flat against Rommath’s stomach, pulled him closer.  _

_ (And Rommath had grown used to the pet name. Nall had always been more affectionate than he. But something this night made him uneasy.) _

_ He rolled onto his back and Nall leaned over him. Kissed along the pulse of his throat and pressed their lips together, so softly. Rommath keened as he felt the prince’s hardness press against his thigh, as Nallorath slotted his leg between Rommath’s.  _

_ “Already?” he teased. “You’ll be the death of me.” He ran a hand lazily down Nall’s side, along the curve of his ass. Nallorath huffed a light laugh. Closed his eyes and pressed his forehead gently to Rommath’s.  _

_ “Your allure is too strong,” the prince chided. “I am powerless to it.” _

_ Rommath’s free hand tangled in the prince’s hair. He had such lovely golden hair…  _

_ “I must confess something,” Nall breathed, pulling away only to dip low again, sucking lightly at Rommath’s earlobe. Rommath jerked, rutting against the prince’s thigh. His ears had always been a weak spot. _

_ “Oh?”  _

_ “Mm.” Nall’s teeth scraped lightly along the skin. “I’ve never felt so strongly before, dalah’surfal.” And if he noticed Rommath had stilled, he thought nothing of it. The words he whispered into the mage’s hair pinned him in place, heart thudding. “Ana’eran surfal.”  _

_ Ana’eran surfal. How Rommath had longed to hear those words. How often he had imagined another voice breathing those words to life. How he had ached to hear them for the better part of thirteen hundred years.  _

_ “I love you,” he heard again, and in his mind’s eye, Kael bent close, brushing their lips together and whispered those words into Rommath’s hungry mouth. _

_ Silver eyes sparkled above him, and Rommath couldn’t breathe. Silver, not blue. Nallorath, and not Kael. _

_ Nallorath loved him. Nallorath  _ **_loved_ ** _ him. And oh… Nall did make him happy. Nall could give him the sort of life he deserved. Could give him the  _ **_love_ ** _ he deserved. Nallorath who smiled at him over breakfast and kissed him so sweetly. A prince and an archmage both, whose touch made him feel desired and alive… _

_ Yet Kael’s face flashed in his mind. _

_ His innards twisted themselves into a painful knot.  _

_ “Nall,” he murmured. “I…”  _

_ I can’t. _

_ My heart is not my own. I lost it long ago… _

_ (He couldn’t say that.) _

_ They lay like that for what seemed eternity, the moons rising and falling with the sun. For a lifetime. Until finally Nallorath pulled back, settled beside him. Tucked a lock of his golden hair behind an ear, and avoided his gaze. _

_ “I suppose that’s a little premature,” he mumbled, blush creeping shamefully over his cheeks. He chuckled, a hollow little sound. “I’ve been told I attach myself too quickly.” _

_ (“No,” Rommath wanted to say. “You are perfect,” he wanted to tell him. “You did nothing wrong.”) _

_ Rommath said nothing. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.  _

_ Nall seemed not to know what to do with his hands. He made as if to hug Rommath to himself, as they were, before pulling them away. “I’m tired,” he said abruptly, “and it is very late. We should sleep.” _

_ And Rommath made a strangled noise in response. Nallorath must have taken it for agreement, for he flicked a hand at the candle by his bedside. It went out, the faint smell of fire exploding into the quiet smell of fragrant, floral smoke. The prince bedded down, and then rolled over.  _

_ “Goodnight, Rommath.” And he was not angry, or sharp, and Rommath wished that he was. Anything would be easier to hear than the sadness dripping from his words.  _

_ “Goodnight,” Rommath whispered.  _

_ (Nallorath, who loved him. Who bathed him in worship and inspired in him need and desire. Nallorath, who was not Kael. Who could never be Kael. Because Nallorath loved him, and Kael did not.) _

_ Hesitantly, Rommath turned to his side. He rested his head between the prince’s shoulder blades, pressed the softest, most tender of kisses to his skin.  _

_ Nall, I’m sorry… _

His eyes were wet when he awoke.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the lack of clear time breaks (the * * *) conveys the disjointedness of the first days of the Scourge aftermath. Especially when the narrator isn't sleeping, there are no clear distinctions between "yesterday," "today," "tomorrow."


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What starts with a visit for crabs ends with an enlightening talk with one Halduron Brightwing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got [Trueshot Remedy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24866617/chapters/60159880)'s next chapter on the back burner finally because of this chapter. If y'all think Rommath is messed up, I present to you Halduron.

All he wanted was one day －  _ one day _ － in this hellscape without issue.

“He can’t  _ arrest _ us!” Umbric protested.

Today was not that day. 

“I assure you, he can,” Lor’themar said calmly. Rommath knew the ranger didn’t know the extent as to the danger Umbric and his “research” were putting them in, but he understood that Rommath did. Umbric was outraged.

“You are the  _ Regent Lord!” _ he shouted. “Surely you can see what an asset the Void could be, if only we could harness it!”

Lor’themar was a ranger raised by priests and married to a paladin. He understood the Light, and knew at the very least that the Void was its opposite. Its volatile, deadly opposite. And if he didn’t, well. Rommath had made it quite clear.

“And Rommath is the Grand Magister,” he said evenly, “and as such, all matters regarding the Sanctum are  _ his _ domain.” 

“Regent Lord!” Umbric crossed the room in four strides, only to be stopped by Rommath raising a fiery hand. “Please, allow me to present our research! I  _ assure _ you that the Void can be controlled!”

“You can’t control the Void!” Rommath snarled. He was more than furious. Umbric and his team had proven themselves in the reclamation of Deatholme, and for that had been reinstated to the Magisters’ Sanctum. No less than a month later and rumors had begun, rumors of dark rituals and unclean magic, eldritch fiends and secret meetings. It hadn’t been difficult to ascertain the source. A well-placed cat wandering the Sanctum laboratories at the right time had told him all he’d needed to know.

(Never would they know how Rommath collected his information. The spy network inherited from Belo’vir, using  _ cats _ of all creatures. Ingenious.)

“You can!” Umbric insisted. “With practice, do shadow priests not make use of its magic?”

“Do not speak of priests to me!” Rommath seethed. “You are no shadow priest!” 

(His sister had told him long ago about the Void. About the priests who had gone mad. The Void scared her, she’d said.  _ The Void attempts to seduce with promises of power and renown, and once it has you within its tendrils, it will never let you go. You are its host, not its wielder. Stay far, far away from Void magic, Rommath. _ )

“I swear to you, the Void is able to be harnessed for the good of Quel’Thalas!” Umbric’s eyes were wide, sweat gathering along his hairline. “We have been researching the elf gates, we can strengthen Ban’dinoriel with the Void so that it can never fall again! We can use it to drive out the  _ Amani!” _

A low blow. Umbric was fighting dirty now, trying to sway troll-hating Lor’themar to his side. Perhaps it would work on a fool like Halduron, who had less sense than the Light gave a gnat. But not Lor’themar.

“You would put us in service to the Void!” Rommath bellowed. “Do you not understand the game you are playing?”

“The Void would serve  _ us!” _

“The Void  _ serves _ no one!” The fire was back, snaking around his fingers. “You may wish to spend eternity the slave of the Void Lords, but you will not take Quel’Thalas down with you! Take your followers and get out!”

Umbric gaped at him. “Get out?” he repeated. “What－”

“I will not suffer your stupidity any longer!” Rommath thundered. “The Scourge, the Burning Legion － were these atrocities not enough for you? Must you doom the few sin’dorei remaining?! Get out!”

The magister’s eyes darted to Lor’themar. “Regent Lord…?”

But the ranger’s stare was hard and his mouth was silent. He stood as one with the Grand Magister.

“ **Get out!** ” A jet of flame shot forth and Umbric jumped. “Do you not understand Thalassian? Leave Quel’Thalas or I shall have you burned alive for treason!”

Umbric once more looked helplessly to Lor’themar. Lor’themar held his gaze.

(Rommath felt on fire, the anger clawing its way through his veins, poking sharply at the scar he still carried in his chest. He wanted nothing more than to incinerate Umbric where he stood.)

The magister’s shoulders sagged. “Fine,” he said grimly. “Fine.” He took a step back. “But when we master Void magic, I want no envoys begging for our return!”

“You will have none!” Rommath seethed.  _ You’ll be insane or dead long before then. _

“You have until nightfall to leave the city,” Lor’themar ordered. “Tarry and you will be arrested.”

Umbric scowled. Turned sharply on his heel and stalked out, the heavy wooden door banging shut behind him.

Rommath let loose a howl of rage, the fire forming a vortex around his fists. He slammed them down on the table, the flame jumping to the wood and catching on loose papers.

“Calm yourself, Rommath!” Quickly, Lor’themar doused the flames with an upset wine glass. “I need those reports!”

“ _ Calm _ －?!” Rommath sputtered. “Did you not hear that asinine, inane, senseless－”

“I heard,” the ranger said patiently. “That’s no reason to reduce my desk to kindling.” He wrinkled his nose. “You, of all elves, should know the dangers of setting fires indoors.”

“Oh, allow me to ventilate the room first!” Rommath snapped. He felt like a spring coiled very tightly, about to snap. “Ungrateful wretch! I allow him to return to  _ my _ Sanctum and he took every step to befoul it!”

Lor’themar hummed, eyeing the singed reports warily. “I’ll send Kath’mar to cleanse and bless the area.” 

“Kath’mar,” Rommath scoffed. He rolled his eyes. “As if that silly priest will restore order.”

“Restoring order is your job.” Lor’themar’s legendary calm was  _ infuriating. _ “Kath’mar is only to remove the taint of the Void.”

Rommath whirled on him. “You  _ do _ understand the danger, don’t you?” (The look in his sister’s eyes when she spoke of the Void would forever haunt him.)

“Yes, I do, Rommath,” Lor’themar affirmed. “And had that magister not barged in here seeking to overrule you, I would have left you to handle it. I don’t interfere in the Sanctum.”

“But you agree?” Rommath pressed. Surely Lor’themar felt more strongly about this than he was letting on. He had to, having been raised in the South Sanctum. He was tied more strongly to the Light than any ranger Rommath had ever known.

He frowned. “If I didn’t, I would have said so.” He leaned against his desk. “My ass is not on the line here,” he reminded Rommath. “That magister’s is. Umbric, was it? Was he the security threat you spoke of before?”

Rommath clenched his jaw. He should’ve banished Umbric months ago. “Yes,” he bit out. “I thought the threat of derailing his career would curb his… unsavory desires.”

Lor’themar’s stare was piercing. “I don’t believe the Void cares much for careers,” he said quietly. 

(And Rommath wondered then just how deep into this Void business Umbric was. Had he made  _ contact _ with anything? Perhaps execution would be the better course of action.)

“I’ll fetch Kath’mar myself,” Rommath said suddenly. “I will accompany him to sweep the lab of this Lightforsaken ‘research.’” He scowled. “Umbric can’t be allowed to take it out of the city.”

“What will you do with it?” Lor’themar wondered. He needn’t ask. He already knew the answer.

“I’ll burn it, of course.”

* * *

“You don’t even like crab,” Astalor complained. He’d bundled a dozen of them of them, huge fat beasts, in a bucket filled with ice and left it on his quaint little front porch at Rommath’s request.

“They’re for the sanctum cats,” Rommath grumbled. They deserved the treat, after Umbric and his Void nonsense. Kim’alah especially. 

(It had been Kim’alah he’d sent into the Sanctum basement. Logically, Rommath knew no one cat was better than the other. That the point of using the sanctum cats was that they were everywhere and saw everything and that no one suspected anything untoward. But Kim’alah was  _ special, _ he thought. As sharp as any elf, and fearless. He knew he shouldn’t play favorites － wasn’t that the point of not relying on  _ people _ for his information?)

Astalor chuckled. “I sometimes find your affection for cats difficult to reconcile with the rest of your personality,” he teased.

Rommath blinked. “What does that mean?”

“Rommath.” Astalor was laughing now. “Rommath, you have to know you aren’t a  _ nice _ man.”

What did that have to do with anything? 

“I didn’t come here to be insulted, Astalor,” he said instead. 

“Just to be crabby.”

He frowned. “That was a terrible pun.”

Astalor grinned. “I will throw all manner of terrible puns at you for the hell you’ve put me through, Rommath.” 

(Perhaps he should have used  _ all _ his blood in Deatholme.)

“Why am I friends with you?” Rommath muttered.

“I’m the only one who puts up with you.” Astalor spoke with such a straight face that Rommath wasn’t sure if he was serious.

“If you’re going to keep insulting me, I’ll be taking my leave.” 

And Astalor laughed. “Go ahead,” he said cheerily. “I’ve things to do anyway. Liadrin asked me to oversee the Hall of Blood.”

(Rommath still didn’t understand how a mage trained paladins but, as with many things in life, he felt it better not to ask.)

He collected his crabs from Astalor’s porch and bid his friend goodbye. If crabs lived in the Elrendar he could have just ordered them from the city. (Of course, the murlocs of the Elrendar probably would have had something to say about that.) 

Even now, it was very odd to Rommath to not be able to hear the shrieks of murlocs from anywhere on the isle. The Scourge had decimated their population too, and the only place one could catch sight or sound of them was near the coasts. Astalor’s cottage, inland though it was, would have been overrun with the beasts only ten years ago. 

Rommath found himself near the beaches, the wind off the waves cool on his face. There were no murlocs here either. Their huts should have mobbed the shoreline, gaggles of tadpoles milling about and cracking clams open for their meat. It had been so when he was younger, he remembered, and though Thalorien had never shared his secret crustacean hoards, Rommath remembered the clams. The pearls would be traded for or stolen by the Dawnblade, fashioned into elaborate jewelry or sewn into expensive robes. Kael had once been gifted a hairbrush with a pearl handle, and Rommath had once sent his mother a bracelet of small seed pearls no doubt worth more than the family home. Pearls had once been so rare, so zealously guarded by the murlocs, that only the Warden and royalty wore them. With the annihilation of murlocs, even unarmed villagers from Dawnstar could fish for clams and the pearls nestled inside. 

He jumped as the familiar warbling sounded over the beach. Further down were the North Sea murlocs, he knew. The friendlier murlocs who Neeluu had given crabs to all those months ago. Curious, suddenly longing for a familiar face even if that face was blue and full of teeth, Rommath stomped through the sand towards the noise. It seemed the murlocs had returned from a day of hunting, dropping spears and javelins and nets onto the sand. The nets held fish, still flopping angrily, and one creature proudly showed off a fish still speared on the end of a trident to a group of gawking tadpoles. Another plopped itself down before a pile of clams and began cracking them open with its strong nails. 

It seemed to have been a good day for them, Rommath thought, as they screamed amongst themselves. 

(He’d never really  _ thought _ about murlocs before, he realized. They had always been just a nuisance to be ignored when he and Kael had come to Quel’Danas, and Dalaran had none. He wondered if his sister had ever approached the murlocs, her empty hands out to show she meant no harm. He wondered if she’d helped the North Sea murlocs, after the Scourge. He wondered if any of them knew her.)

* * *

Rommath knew, logically, that his sister held no answers. His sister was dead, and if any part of her remained at the memorial grave site, he could not hear her. But it comforted him to visit, to count the many flowers left by pilgrims and well wishers, to see other people paying their respects to those they had lost. 

The Sunwell Grove was always quiet, even when it was crowded. A hush blanketed the area with Light and arcane, and even the birds overhead sounded far, far away. The Sunwell pulsed quietly from the sanctum, a curious sensation Rommath could feel in his bones. He set the crab bucket down and pressed his hands together.

(For all his experience with the Light and its teachings, he still felt silly when he prayed. He knew the words but they felt practiced. Recited. Like a declamation to a teacher or an everyday spell. He knew it was wrong, to be raised by someone as devoted as his mother, to have a sister as devoted as his, and not feel at home in the Light. Somehow, he didn’t think the spirit of his sister minded. Perhaps she only cared that he was here.

He found he prayed more to her than the Light anyway.)

He told his sister about the sanctum cats and the crab feast he would give them. He vented about Umbric, scowling deeply and giving it all he had to keep his temper in check, to keep from scorching the grave flowers. He spoke of Astalor, and how he worried for him.

_ He misses you, _ he thought to the ghost of his sister.  _ He has secreted himself away in that cottage and leaves only when called upon. He misses you desperately, dear sister. _

Rommath thought of his friend, the wedding ring hanging around his neck. How Astalor had clutched at it like a talisman when showing Rommath the cottage, newly finished and finally roofed with smooth red tiles. How his face had clouded over, and for several moments, Rommath had thought he would cry.

_ Your husband is stronger than me. I cannot let go of the one I love, and I cannot make my peace with him. _

He told his sister about Kael, freely as he had never been in life. He told her of his anguish, of the deep, screaming maw inside himself. He told her of the dreams and the nightmares, of his horror at seeing what Kael had become. He told her everything he wished he’d said, should have said, when she’d been alive. Auriel would have said something wise, if he would have told her. 

_Did you ever learn to heal a broken heart?_ _How does it go?_

He imagined his sister laying a hand on his, the warmth that would spread from her touch. “ _ Oh Rommath,” _ she would soothe. “ _ You must let him go,” _ she would say. 

(If only there had never been Jaina Proudmoore. Perhaps then…)

But Kael was dead, and dwelling on what could have been would not bring him back. 

He told her of Aethas, and their ruined friendship, and the secrets he had learned. How Aethas had  _ known _ about Kael and never breathed a word. How Aethas had loved him, and he’d been too blind to see. 

_ How many people did I overlook? How many were so eclipsed by Kael? _

He told her about Nallorath, and his ears burned at the memory of the prince’s crestfallen face the night he’d told Rommath he loved him. 

_ I hurt him so badly. I cared for him, truly I did, dear sister.  _

He felt no shame, admitting his illicit feelings to his sister. He knew she would not have judged him. 

_ Every affair I’ve ever had, every man and woman, I’ve ended because they were not Kael. Because deep down I’d hoped…  _

(It didn’t matter what he hoped now. Kael was dead, and no amount of hoping would ever bring him back.)

_ Please, _ he prayed.  _ Help me let go. Let me forget Kael. Let me move on. _

(He had touched no one in nearly ten years. Not since Nallorath. Not since Kael had left for Outland. He still felt a loyalty to a man who had never wanted him.)

Was it even possible? he wondered. Rommath saw Astalor in his mind’s eye, lip held between his teeth to keep it from wobbling as he took in his simple new home. He saw Jaina, cold and stiff in Dalaran, her face and heart frozen. He saw the undead ranger in the months after the Scourge, saw Halduron falter. Halduron, who ten years later was still prone to fits of rage and depression and drank and fucked it all away. Would Astalor become like Halduron? Would Rommath? 

He opened his eyes and raised his head with a sigh. Auriel had no answers for him. 

* * *

Rommath slunk back to Silvermoon, crabs and ice rattling in their bucket. The gardens were quiet, even once the sanctum cats came. They gathered in groups and played or groomed themselves and each other, waiting patiently as he cracked the crab shells and claws and distributed the meat within. The best piece he saved for Kim’alah.

“Good girl,” he murmured, watching her wolf down the treat. He wondered if the cats themselves knew how he thought of them. If they knew that Kim’alah was his and not another, ordinary sanctum cat. He knew shockingly little about cat society, he realized. 

(Did cats  _ have _ a society? Did they have rulers and rules just as elves did? He would have to do some reading.)

It was in the gardens, his hands smelling of seafood and the bucket of ice slowly melting, that Halduron found him. The ranger raised an eyebrow at the sight before him.

“Never took you for much of a cat person,” he said by way of greeting. “Or an…  _ anything _ person, really.”

“I like cats.” Rommath wiggled his fingers at the nearest, a young ginger tabby, who padded over and began to lick at the leftover crab juice.

Halduron laughed. “I can see that. I didn’t know all of them belonged to you.”

“They don’t,” Rommath hummed. “Only that one.” He pointed to Kim’alah, delicately licking her paws. “The rest like me because I feed them." 

“Bribery does wonders for animals,” Halduron said agreeably. He found a spot right on the ground and sat, and soon one of the cats wandered over, sniffing curiously. 

“What are you doing here? Did you have need of me?”

“By the Sunwell, no.” The ranger grinned. “I’m not much of a city boy,” he admitted. “Sometimes I come out here just to  _ be _ in some greenery.”

(Rommath couldn’t understand that. He was very much a “city boy.” He nodded anyway.)

He watched a few of the cats interact with Halduron. He had learned much from the sanctum cats, secrets notwithstanding. Generally speaking, cats were very blunt in their dislikes and their affections. Social customs and politeness meant little to them. The sanctum cats seemed to like the Ranger General, sniffing at him and rubbing their faces against him. 

“Should come out here with you more often,” he said. “I hardly ever see any animals when I’m in the city.”

“The cats are everywhere,” Rommath said airily. “You simply don’t look hard enough.” No one ever did. The wonderful thing about cats was that they were overlooked. Thanks to Belo’vir, cats in Silvermoon － and indeed, Quel’Thalas as a whole － were treated as normal, were seen as a fixture common as crystals or mailboxes. Rommath had never learned if Belo’vir had created his network of secrets or merely inherited it, but it was nonetheless a brilliant system. Who would have ever suspected the calico asleep in the corner would relay one’s every word back to the Grand Magister?

The cats were, perhaps, Silvermoon’s best kept secret.

“No,” Halduron said. “I probably don’t.” He laughed. “Hawkstriders are more my thing. Lor says cats and I don’t get along.”

“You seem to be doing just fine now.”

“Well.” He smiled mischievously. “The problem had always been  _ lynxes, _ exactly.” And Rommath didn’t quite understand but Halduron didn’t elaborate and Rommath didn’t push. 

He was quiet for a long time, sitting with Halduron and the cats. The crab was long devoured, as was the smell on his hands, and the little creatures started drifting back to wherever it was they’d come from. Kim’alah, having finished her bath, gave Rommath a flippant sniff before turning to leave, fluffy grey tail held high. She caught sight of Halduron and, almost naturally, made the detour over to him. (Rommath envied the ease with which his cat showed her curiosity, her affections.)

“Well hello there,” Halduron cooed, holding out his hand for Kim’alah to sniff. “What can I do for you, pretty girl?” His gentle nature agreed with the cat, who butted him with her head and allowed him to stroke her. 

Halduron Brightwing around animals was an entirely different breed of elf, Rommath decided. He wasn’t loud or obnoxious, as he scritched Kim’alah’s ears, wasn’t boorish and stupid. Halduron Brightwing was more a ranger, a creature of the forests, than he was a man of civilization, and his interactions with animals screamed that. Whenever Rommath saw him, when he happened to be in Silvermoon, it was nearly always within the vicinity of the stables － indeed, he practically lived there － with the hawkstriders and chargers and the few precious unicorns that had survived both the Burning Legion and the Scourge. Halduron around animals was relaxed, amiable,  _ tolerable _ even. Had he always been so tightly wound around other people? Had he always been so high strung, so irritating, so… 

(He had not met Halduron before the Scourge. The man who hid behind a mask of false confidence and familiarity, the man who drowned himself in drink and whores － that was the only Halduron he knew. Had he once been different? Was that why Lor’themar worried so?)

Rommath wondered if, not unlike the hermits of the classics, Halduron had retreated within himself after his wife was risen. If he found the solace amongst the beasts of Quel’Thalas that he no longer found amongst elves. If, given the choice, he would never return to the city and instead eke out a slightly less miserable existence amid the dragonhawks and trees of the Amani Mountains.

(Would Rommath, if the opportunity presented itself, do the same?)

“Brightwing,” he said abruptly. “May I ask you a personal question?”

Halduron’s eyes flashed in his direction, tension returning to his features as he was forced to acknowledge the wider world outside of the cat beside him. “Go ahead,” he replied, his tone cautious. Rommath couldn’t blame him. They had known each other for more than a dozen years and never once had Rommath shown an interest in him as a  _ person. _

(He was reminded then, of a moment ten years ago. When the undead elves, free of the taint of the Scourge, had poured in, seeking solace, a return to a semblance of normality. The stiffness which with Halduron and Lor’themar had held themselves at the presence of the rangers, people they had known in life. Lor’themar had expressed to him concern in anticipation of the arrival of one… “ _ Halduron’s fiancée,” _ he had said, and Rommath, in a rare moment of compassion, had informed Halduron of an office of which he was not aware. Rommath, who knew the Spire like the back of his hand, had seen the pain, the anguish in the other man and had decided that that was a reunion that need not be had before the entire court. And when the ranger left, her face tight, and Halduron had not, it had been Rommath who had peered in. Who had offered to escort him through the unfamiliar, lesser used hallways, lest Lor’themar and the others see his grief.)

“How…” He found suddenly that words were inadequate. The words he associated with Halduron. He could not broach such a delicate subject in the disparaging tone he often adopted when speaking to the ranger. He could not ask  _ How can you fuck your way through the kingdom when your heart belongs to another? _ even if that’s what he meant. 

“I find myself troubled,” Rommath tried again. “I find myself… too attached to what has passed.”

“As do many of us,” Halduron said solemnly. Kim’alah was standing on her toes, front paws kneading against the fabric of his trousers, and the ranger gave her a rub under her chin.

“Especially you.” 

A raised eyebrow. “Yeeessss?” Halduron drew out the word, confused. “It’s no great secret that the Scourge invasion still affects me.” 

(In more ways than one. Rommath had heard rumors of night terrors, of the fights he had with Lor’themar.)

“What is it you’re getting at, Rommath?” he asked, eyes narrowing. “If you wish to lecture me, I ask that you save it. Liadrin has done it often enough.”

Rommath shook his head. “While there are no doubt things you need  _ lecturing _ for, this is not one of them,” he said. “I… have lost something precious to me. Someone,” he amended. “And I…”  _ And I see his face when I close my eyes. Every night in my dreams. I both need and don’t want to let him go… _

(But he couldn’t say that.)

Halduron said nothing. Sat with Kim’alah in his lap, fingers scritching through soft fur. His gaze was… not a look Rommath had seen on him before, but it bore no judgement. None at all.

“Your sister?” he asked after a moment. 

A pause. “No.” 

“Ah.” The ranger leaned back on one hand, as if assessing the sincerity of Rommath’s words. Searching for ridicule.

(And it wouldn’t be unwarranted, after the many remarks Rommath had made about the man’s nighttime habits.)

“I understand that,” Halduron said quietly, “very well.” He scratched lightly at his cheek. “I’m not exactly the best person for ask for advice.”

“You are the only person whom I can ask.” And this was true. Lor’themar had lost nothing in the war, an eye no match for a family or soulmate. His relationship with Liadrin did not allow such heart to hearts; theirs was a relationship built on formality and professionalism. Astalor’s loss was too recent, his marriage too short. And Neeluu…

Well. He couldn’t ask Neeluu. 

But Halduron. Halduron could understand. Rommath was not privy to the details of his life before the Scourge, but he knew the relationship had spanned several centuries, and that was enough for him. If anyone could understand the sun darkening after a millennia, it was Halduron.

The ranger laughed, a short, hollow sound. “Lor is a bit more stable than me,” he admitted. “He’d give better advice.”

“Lor’themar has not the experience. His companion is still alive.” And Halduron’s frown told him he’d hit a nerve. “Do not mistake me, Brightwing. This is not easy for me. But I think you are the only person who has any idea of what I have lived through.”

Halduron’s gaze was steady. “And what have you lived through?” Still on edge, still wary. Rommath sighed. 

“I…” It hurt. He could not believe he was about to admit, out loud, the deepest, darkest secret of his heart. And to  _ Halduron Brightwing, _ of all people. 

“A long time ago,” he began, “I lost my heart to another. For fourteen hundred years, I saw no one else. And now…” He shrugged helplessly. “Now I am alone, and I… I don’t  _ want _ to be.” 

Silence. Complete silence, save for Kim’alah’s soft purrs. 

(Rommath regretted the words, at Halduron’s silence. This was a mistake. He should have spoken to Astalor. Astalor with his prattling about the Light and divine comfort and his mere eight years of happiness.)

To his surprise, the ranger levied him with a soft, sad smile. “I understand that too. Unfortunately.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Well. You know how I cope. You don’t seem to be fond of the idea.” 

No. Rommath could not see himself at a brothel, could not see himself stumbling drunkenly to bed in the wee hours of the morning every night for the rest of his life. Could not see himself changing bedmates as easily as he changed his clothes. Didn’t want that. 

(And he had never even  _ had _ Kael to begin with…)

“Lor says it’s not healthy,” Halduron continued, “but…” The faraway look had come back to his eyes, the one Rommath had seen all those months ago. He looked away, and it took Rommath a moment to realize he was looking in the direction of Lordaeron. That he felt so connected still to his wife that he knew instinctively the way back to her. “It’s the only way I feel alive. Not  _ happy, _ mind.” He rubbed along Kim’alah’s back, his face stone. “I died when she did.”

(Did Rommath feel like that?)

“I had Velonara for five hundred years,” Halduron went on. “Five  _ hundred _ years. She was always there － pushing me, challenging me. Making me want to do better,  _ be _ better.” His voice wobbled, he was breaking now. “And the Scourge － Arthas  _ fucking _ Menethil － took her from me.” 

(Kael… Had Kael made him feel so? He and Kael had always been equals. Had always been  _ the same. _ Rommath had never felt he wasn’t  _ enough _ for Kael…)

“It’s not so bad,” Halduron said shakily. “There isn’t much time to sit on my ass and mope in the forests. But…” He swept his arm out, around them. “Here? All I do is  _ think.” _ He looked south again, towards Lordaeron. “Not a moment passes where I do not think of her.”

(And Rommath knew then, that for all their similarities in this, they were not the same at all. If Kael was his sun, Velonara was Halduron’s universe. Was that what love was? Was that what happened when the object of one’s affections returned those feelings? Would Rommath have been the same, been like Halduron, if Kael had only looked at him?

Did he  _ want _ to be shackled to Kael’s memory, the way Halduron was to Velonara’s?)

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I did not wish to upset you.”

Halduron shook his head. Sniffled. “It’s alright,” he muttered. “At least you aren’t admonishing me, the way Lor would.” 

Admonish. At any other time, Rommath would have snarked that the word seemed too large for the tiny brain of a ranger. He didn’t feel the other man would take the comment lightly right now, even said in jest.

“I never thanked you,” he said suddenly.

“Pardon?” 

“When the… the Forsaken came back.” Halduron bit his lip. “I never thanked you, for the privacy you allowed me back then. With her.” Kim’alah butted his hand and he stroked her absentmindedly, having stilled in his grief. “For giving me the space I needed.” He laughed, a small huff of breath. “If you had forced me back to the receiving chamber, I probably would have hit you.”

Rommath laughed too. “That would have ended very badly for you.”

“I’m sure it would have.” 

They chatted a while longer, traded jibs back and forth almost easily. Almost like friends. The masks slid back into place, their wounds hidden again. And Rommath decided he could never become Halduron Brightwing. He could not allow himself to become a slave to Kael’s memory, as Halduron was to his wife’s. What Halduron did was not living, and Rommath wanted to live. 

(He had no idea how to do that.)

Rommath wanted to live, for himself now. Not Kael. Kael was dead, and Rommath had been dead with him long enough. He could not become Halduron. He could not lose himself to the memory of a man who, in the end, had never loved him. Had never belonged to him at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lor'themar's backstory was briefly mentioned in chapter three of [Family](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24420763/chapters/58915177), another work of mine set in the same universe. (All my stories are in the same universe, actually.) Lor'themar is Kael's cousin, his mother being a lesser noble than Kael or even Nallorath (not bearing the title Princess), and his father (a titled noble) was abusive when Lor'themar was young. Lor'themar ran away and was taken in by the priests at the South Sanctum, where Liadrin lived with Vandellor. My Lor'themar, if he'd had any affinity for the Light, probably would've been a priest. Alas, he is a forest child like Halduron.
> 
> A note on Lor/Liadrin: In Family, it's established that Lor'themar and Liadrin are not married and do not want to be, and "officially" are not together at all, though they are and have been in a relationship for most of their lives and also have a daughter in Salandria. Some people (like Rommath) find that super fucking weird, and consider them "married" for convenience sake (because they don't know what else to call it and don't especially care to decipher it.) This is the same with Halduron and Velonara: In [Little Lynx](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24211186), it's established that Halduron proposed to Velonara (which she denied and then immediately proposed to him because they're just Like That) but did not marry her. For all intents and purposes, they're "married" just like Lor/Liadrin, and unlike Lor/Liadrin, Halduron never bothers to correct anyone when they call Velonara his wife. He's a masochist like that.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Rommath can't catch a break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #FreeSalandria

Rommath had never given much thought as to the statues dotting the city. Many of them had been destroyed in the Scourge － the monuments to Anasterian and his long reign, of other Sunstriders long past － and Kael had ordered many in his own likeness erected in their place. Monuments and memorials were constructed to honor the fallen. Warden Dawnseeker had an impressive alabaster piece outside the Chapel of the Sun, and before leaving for the Outland, several works were made in the Lady Neeluu’s own likeness as well. Rommath had never realized, looking around the city, just how moored in the past Silvermoon and her children were.

Perhaps this latest petition had a point. 

“I think we should consider it,” Rommath said, face blank. “The latter half, at least.”

The people clamoured for the removal of Kael’s statues. Rommath had objected vehemently every time, for Kael was their history, the last of the Sunstriders. This newest petition suggested replacing the monuments with likenesses of Lor’themar, “signifying the step forward into the modern era.” (Rommath had snorted at that. The petition was less an attempt at modernization than it was another threat against Kael’s legacy. But Lor’themar _had_ no statues, he knew… It must seem odd to the populace, to not have the marbled eye of their ruler on them as they went about their daily lives.)

Lor’themar grimaced. “Would you erect a statue of yourself?” 

“Of course not.” Rommath wrinkled his nose. “But I am not the ruler of Silvermoon.”

“Neither am I.”

“I would like a statue,” Halduron declared. “Then neither of you could ever say I am not in the city.”

Lor’themar laughed. “It doesn’t work like that, Halduron. But good try.” 

“The Ranger General should have a statue,” Halduron insisted, flexing a bit.. “I shall stand exactly like this, so that all would know of my power.”

“And we’ll place them outside every whorehouse and tavern in the city,” Rommath deadpanned.

“What a fantastic idea!” The ranger grinned. “Though I do think it would intimidate existing clientele.”

The Grand Magister rolled his eyes. “I would seek comfort in the knowledge that your whores would be unable to leave you delirious and dying from disease at our feet.”

“A lovely way to go though,” Halduron quipped.

“Don’t be daft,” Lor’themar huffed. “You’ve cheated death more times than I have fingers to count on. You won’t die from a whore’s disease.”

Halduron ran a hand through his hair and smirked. “It would be like me, wouldn’t it?” he asked. “I’ve survived a dozen troll raids, the undead, the Burning Legion, drowning, and being mauled by a lynx－”

“You brought that one on yourself,” Lor’themar chuckled.

“－only to die in bed.” He placed his arms behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “That’s the dream, men.”

“I hardly think leaking pus from one’s genitals is _the dream,”_ Rommath drawled. “And we’re getting away from the point.”

Lor’themar rubbed wearily at the skin near his eyepatch. “I thought it was settled,” he mused. “We’re giving Halduron a statue. What else is there to talk about?”

“We’re not giving Brightwing a statue!” Rommath hissed. 

“Why not?” Halduron whined.

“And you know damn well you are avoiding the conversation!” Rommath felt a migraine coming on. In some matters, Lor’themar Theron was quick and efficient, two steps ahead of everyone else and waiting patiently for him to catch up. But when he didn’t want to do something… 

(Oh, to have Liadrin here! She wouldn’t put up with this nonsense. Rommath thought he must be going soft in his middle age. The Rommath of ten years ago would be yelling by now.)

“Neeluu has statues,” Lor’themar protested. “The people look to her for guidance and solace. Why must I display a symbol of my own narcissism when she has a far better and public history?”

“Lady Neeluu does not lead,” Halduron piped up, in a stunning moment of competence. “You know that, Lor. The people wish to see a leader.”

Lor’themar frowned. “She has led admirably,” he countered, “especially in the face of her father’s sudden death.”

“Perhaps you should marry her then,” Halduron goaded. “Seal your position as beloved ruler by bedding the Light of Dawn.”

Lor’themar was used to Halduron’s illicit suggestions, Rommath thought. The man hardly batted an eye. “I have no interest in Neeluu,” he said calmly, “as you well know. And I think Lia should have something to say about it if I did.”

Halduron’s grin was insidious. “Perhaps,” he agreed. “Rommath probably would too.”

(Rommath was going to murder him.)

“Rommath?” Lor’themar’s ears perked. “What are you talking about, Hal?”

They were getting off topic again. And Rommath’s ears were _not_ burning, damnit.

The Ranger General draped himself across the table and winked lewdly. “I know things,” he said dramatically. “I may have seen something I shouldn’t have.”

“You saw nothing,” Rommath growled. (Was he really going to drudge up that awkward morning on the veranda? _Here,_ in the council room?)

“You see how he denies it?” Halduron crowed. “By the Sunwell, he’s worse than you are, Lor.” He preened. “Even I admit when my eye’s been caught.”

“Not your eye,” Rommath muttered. His dick, more like, but Rommath would not deign to sully the council room with such bawdy words.

(Did the man possess no sense of self preservation? How was discussing his bedroom exploits not _embarrassing?,_ Rommath wondered.)

Lor’themar was looking at him thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d fancy someone like the Lady Neeluu. You’re… rather opposites, aren’t you?”

Rommath wanted to end this conversation. 

He was never confiding in Halduron ever again.

The ranger let out a bark of laughter. “You’re kind,” he told Lor’themar. “Neeluu is a ray of sunshine in this rain-drenched world and Rommath is a sour old bastard.”

“I am thrilled to note your feelings on myself and the Sunwell Warden,” Rommath forced out, his teeth gritted. “Rest assured, I have no designs on her nor anyone else.”

Halduron straightened, an easy grin plastered to his face. “You should,” he urged. “You need a good fuck to get the stick out of your ass.” 

(How dare － the audacity － the _nerve!_ )

Rommath scowled. “Do not forget where we are, Ranger General,” he snapped. “I would ask that you refrain from using such language.” 

Halduron sighed. “Yes, Grand Magister,” he said mockingly. “Might I suggest a nighttime visit with the Warden, to ease the stress from your bones?”

“Why do you insist on behaving this way?” Rommath demanded. (He knew, of course. Halduron had told him so only the other day. But to have it turned on _him_ was something he couldn’t abide.)

“Why do you?” Halduron shot back. “Perhaps you are not the only one with feelings.”

“Feelings have no place in the affairs of the Grand Magister.”

“ _Perhaps we are getting carried away,”_ came the blessed voice of Lor’themar, and Rommath could have wept from shame. “If it would please the masses, then fine. I’ll have an appointment scheduled with the public works committee and pose for this ridiculous monument.”

“Thank you.” Rommath’s jaw was clenched so tightly it hurt. His fist was also clenched; he wanted to swing it at Halduron’s devilish face. Halduron winked at him, and his temper flared.

“Meeting adjourned then,” Lor’themar declared. “I think I shall take a stroll out to the training grounds. See the new paladins.” He stood, leaving the documents on the table strewn haphazard. (He mercifully did not look at Rommath.) “Want to come, Hal?”

“Sure,” the ranger said. “Always nice to see Liadrin screaming at someone else for a change.” 

Lor’themar chuckled and headed for the door, not bothering to wait. He knew Halduron would catch up, and clearly wanted nothing to do with the secret he and Rommath shared. (Halduron would probably fill him in on the way over, Rommath thought grimly. There would soon be rumors all over Quel’Thalas.)

“You know,” the ranger said lightly, leaving the reports for his assistant to collect and parse through, “I do think she fancies you. I don’t know _why._ ” He frowned. “Should probably question her judgement, honestly.”

The intensity at which he glared at his reports could set them alight, Rommath thought, as he gathered them into a neat pile. He did not look at Halduron. “Thank you for the observation,” he said hotly. “Question her all you like. It matters not to me.”

(Mattered not because he _knew,_ but he would not tell Halduron that.)

And Halduron was looking at him, the corners of his lips quirking. “If you’d like to talk about it,” he offered after a moment, “I’ve got time, usually.”

“I would never discuss my _love life_ with the likes of you.” He said _love life_ like it was a dirty word, but the ranger’s grin only widened.

“Ah, so there _is_ a love life,” he pressed. 

“There is not,” Rommath hissed.

“For what it’s worth,” Halduron continued, as if he hadn’t spoken, “I think a wedding is just what the country needs to take its mind off－”

“There is to be no wedding!” (His cheeks were flushed, his ears burning. How dare Halduron mock him so!) Scowling, he snatched the documents from the table and stalked out, Halduron’s laughter ringing in his ears.

* * *

It was his own fault, Rommath knew. He spent an inordinate amount of time on Quel’Danas. With the destruction of the Magister’s Terrace and its reconstruction still in the planning stages, he had no real reason to be on the isle as much as he was. He went for his sister, he told himself, and that was not exactly a lie. He visited her grave as much to pay respects as to draw comfort, and if Kael and Neeluu happened to also be there, well, that was not his fault.

(He needed to stop visiting Kael’s grave, he told himself. It did no good. Kael was dead, and his soul, wherever it was, was decidedly not there. Kael was dead, and he would never move on if he ran to him at every opportunity.)

He told himself this as he haunted the Sanctum, scowling at his reports and correspondence. He told himself this as he took stock of the store rooms and reviewed theses and research. He even told himself this as he sprawled on the divan in the middle of the afternoon, his head tilted in the direction of Quel’Danas, as though listening for…

(He didn’t understand himself anymore. He didn’t know what drew him to the isle anymore. Kael, Astalor, the Sunwell, his sister… Or… 

He refused to entertain the thought of _or._ There was no _or._ )

“Afternoon, Grand Magister,” said his apprentice. How long had she been there? She was setting a tray laden with food on his desk. A large, fluffy pastry with an assortment of meats and cheeses, and mild tea. She looked concerned. 

“Are you alright?” she asked. (Rommath briefly wondered how many times she’d asked him that since Kael’s death. How often his mask slipped enough for her to notice.)

“Of course,” he snapped. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

And Erindae was all business once more, the way it should be. “My mistake,” she told him. She began rattling off the schedule for the afternoon, noting a meeting with the tauren ambassador and another with one of the Sanctum magisters. An early dinner with the heads of the Enchanters’ and Alchemists’ Guilds and an inspection of the Hall of Portals. Rommath nodded along, only half listening. 

He would have to get his act together, he knew. He was not the Grand Magister he had been, before his prince’s death. His apprentice would never have dared question his wellbeing, before the prince’s death. 

“－at the Hall of Blood, sir,” his apprentice finished.

He glanced up, confused. “Pardon?”

(He had never had to ask Erindae to repeat herself before. Get it together, Rommath!)

If his apprentice noticed his short attention span, or was annoyed at it, she hid it well. “You’ve been requested at the Hall of Blood,” she said again. “Lady Liadrin wishes to speak with you today, if you have the time.” She folded her hands primly before herself, and a gesture that reminded Rommath vaguely of Neeluu. “I believe you should be free after dinner, sir, but I did not presume. I said I would pass along the message.” 

Since its inception, Liadrin had relied on Rommath less and less for the day to day of the paladins’ hall, and since the kidnapping and subsequent death of the naaru M’uru, not at all. He knew only magic, not physical combat. What could she possibly need from him?

He nodded. “Of course. Return to the Blood Matriarch and tell her I will be by after sunset.” 

* * *

The Hall of Blood was a newer addition to Silvermoon, constructed on Murder Row from the remains of an old guild hall. (Rommath believed it used to house the Alchemists’ Guild, due to its close proximity to the Rogues’.) Wrapped in dark red and trimmed sparingly in gold, the Hall served as both barracks and boot camp both for the city’s paladins. He knew Liadrin kept an office there, as did Astalor, deep within its heart. The common area was filled with recruits － seasoned and green alike － chattering amongst themselves. Some had just returned from a full day of training, sweaty and tired, shucking off armor right there amongst their peers like rangers. Rommath ignored them and proceeded down the long crimson corridor to Liadrin’s spacious office. 

Liadrin had always been a very professional, spartan woman, in Rommath’s experience, and her office reflected that. A desk sat along one wall, paperwork neatly separated into three piles. Affixed to another wall was a weapons rack, sword polished and gleaming beneath an old truncheon, and a shield bearing the crest of the Blood Knight Order beside it. A small couch faced the weapons rack, and a chest made of dark Amani oak (for Liadrin was from the south too, Rommath recalled, just below the Elrendar) stood to one side. When the office had belonged to the former alchemist guildmaster, a beautiful purple and gold carpet had adorned the floor, decadence and elegance made fabric; but Liadrin had no use for frivolous things and had had it removed. The floor was bare, the smooth, dark red tiles blending seamlessly with the walls. Hall of Blood indeed. 

Rommath had never known Liadrin to be one for _decor._ She was utilitarian － she owned nothing for the sake of its beauty or prestige, nothing that could not be _used,_ and so Rommath was surprised to note, upon entering, the handsome frame hanging over her couch, boasting a child’s drawing in colored wax. It showed who Rommath presumed was Liadrin, proudly astride a rather well rendered horse. (Redemption, Liadrin’s horse was named Redemption.) Asleep on the couch, covered with a knitted blanket, lay its artist, Liadrin’s daughter Salandria.

(Rommath’s lips curved into a smile of their own accord.)

“Ah, Rommath.” Liadrin looked up at his approach, her gold eyes sharp. (He had watched the gold creep into those eyes in the weeks following the restoration of the Sunwell. Had noted with a pang in his heart the same change occurring in one or two of her paladins, in a handful of priests. He wondered if his sister’s eyes would have looked the same, had she lived. If the Light would from beneath her lashes too.) “Thank you for meeting me.” 

He gave a slight bow of his head. “Of course. It sounded urgent.” 

His colleague did not respond, merely set aside her quill and the letter she had been penning, stood up. From a small closet in the corner she produced a sturdy, three legged stool, set it down. Not before her desk, as one might expect, but to the side, parallel to her own tall-backed chair. From anyone else, the idea of perching on a stool would spark offense, but Rommath knew better with Liadrin. That she wanted him to sit at all indicated that she saw him as an equal; her students and the paladin recruits would never have been offered the opportunity. Rommath did the same sort of thing with his magisters. 

He sat. 

“Have you had supper?” He knew Liadrin often worked late into the night. In the early days of the Order, she and Astalor could often be found here well after midnight, slaving away over finances, paperwork, weapons orders. The growling of their stomachs could be heard down the hall. 

“I have,” she told him with a smile. “Salandria and I ate a light meal a few hours ago. We’ll have something a bit heavier once we retire.”

(He had learned to read Liadrin in the decades they’d worked together. She chose her words carefully. He knew that, should he need her after she finished up in the Hall tonight, to look at the home of the Regent Lord, simply because of her use of the word _retire._ The image of a domestic Liadrin nearly made him snort.)

“I could always have food sent down from the Spire kitchens,” he suggested. “You know that.”

“Nonsense,” Liadrin said dismissively. “We have kitchens here, and I am sated for the time being.”

(The food prepared in the Hall’s kitchens was exactly like Liadrin herself. Spartan and lean. He suspected the rations were based on those of the Farstriders’.)

He nodded. “To business then?” And Rommath had always appreciated this in Liadrin, that she was not one to mince words, to spend twenty minutes on useless pleasantries and pageantry. It was off putting, in a court where so much depended on reading between the lines, to speak to a woman who was so up front. He didn’t think Liadrin as she was now would have been the right sort of woman to sit in the office of High Priest, to speak before the Convocation. Sometimes, the reminder of what Silvermoon had been hit Rommath full force. Liadrin was excellent at reminding him.

“Actually,” she said slowly, “what I wished to discuss with you is of a personal matter.” She watched him without actually looking at him, through her lashes and out of the side of her vision. Gaging him. 

Rommath raised an eyebrow. “Oh? That’s unlike you.”

“I know, and I apologize.” 

“Is it Astalor?” he asked. They had spoken of Astalor before, in the aftermath of his sister’s death. He truly had been wrecked, and Liadrin had worried for her friend, her partner in the Order. 

“In a way.” She reached for her tea and sipped, wrinkled her nose. At his subtle gesture, she handed the cup to him and he warmed it in one hand. Her nose did not wrinkle at her next sip. 

“Thank you,” she said, setting the cup down. “Rommath. I have stayed out of this for as long as I can. Our relationship has always been one of rectitude and civility, and I think we both prefer it that way.”

Indeed. Liadrin was one of the only people on whom he could rely to keep a level head, to focus on the task at hand. 

“And you know that I do not tolerate horseplay nor gossip among my ranks.”

Rommath nodded. “I do.” 

The Blood Matriarch folded her hands atop her desk, her eyes sliding away from him. “However, in working closely with Astalor, I do sometimes find myself engaging in personal conversation,” she admitted, “and I find you to be the topic of discussion more often than not.”

Rommath blinked in surprise. “Me?” Why on Azeroth would Astalor talk about him to Liadrin? His own work in the Blood Knight Order had ended years ago, after the installation of M’uru and the work needed to siphon the naaru’s energies into useable power. There was no reason anymore for his name to be mentioned in the Hall of Blood. Rommath had not even set foot in the Hall since Kael’s death. With M’uru gone, there had been no need.

“You.” Liadrin did not like intimate conversation. Her gaze remained firmly fixed on the teacup, out of the corner of her eye. “Astalor has been very worried about you since we have returned from Deatholme,” she confided. “Ordinarily I would have told him to take it up with you, but I have noticed a change in you as well. I must ask － are you well?”

Rommath started. Was he _well?_

(Of course not. Images of Kael danced before his eyes. Kael and Nallorath and Neeluu, his sister and Capernian and Telonicus, dying in Dealtholme and waking in hospital, the fever dreams and nightmares and memories… How could anyone look at him and think him a pinnacle of health?)

It was a testament to the act he had cultivated for so long that anyone thought he was anything less than the iron pillar he’d always been.

“I’m fine,” he told her. “I’m sure you have learned that Astalor worries over the most minor of things.”

“He does,” Liadrin conceded. “I’ve more than once caught him hyperventilating over one thing or another.” Her golden gaze flicked once to him, and then away again. “You do seem stressed as of late. Is anything the matter?”

(The Rommath of old, Kael’s Rommath, would have laughed in her face. _Oh no,_ he would have said, _I’ve only come to terms with the realization that I no longer want to be alone, but I can no more change my situation than I can stop loving the man I’ve loved for fourteen hundred years. I do not sleep at night, my appetite is poor, and the one elf I’ve ever confided in is as dead as the man I love, but I am not stressed at all, dear Liadrin.)_

“Just politics,” he said instead, waving a hand airily. “I’m sure you understand. Brightwing is up in arms about the Darkspear emissary － you’ve probably heard.”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “I have.” Halduron was petitioning Lor’themar once again to put Tatai the troll under guard. _He will murder us all in our sleep,_ he had said. Rommath had had to shut that down quickly before rumors spread.

“I admit, I am also under stress due to the emissaries, but I…” She looked at him then, her eyes blazing like the sun. “May I be honest?”

“I have always valued your honesty,” Rommath answered.

Liadrin frowned. “You’ve dark circles under your eyes, and lines on your face.”

“I thank you for reminding me of my age,” he deadpanned.

If they had a more familiar relationship, she may have smacked him. “It’s not your age,” she clarified. “There’s glamour on your face again. You stopped using one, after Deatholme. And now it’s back.”

Rommath froze. He hadn’t expected her to say that.

(Rommath’s glamours were undetectable. Even Kael, skilled as he had been, had always left a glimmer of the seam that bound arcane to skin.)

He didn’t know Liadrin could see glamours. Had _known_ in the months following Kael’s death that his face had been a literal mask. 

(The lack of sleep had given his skin a sickly pallor, one more easily concealed than explained, because the source of his insomnia was…)

“And not just that,” Liadrin continued. She was looking somewhere past his ear (and dimly Rommath registered faint amusement that she could look a person in the eyes as she shouted but not here, not when engaged in matters of a private nature). “Astalor has confided in me that he spoke to Neeluu just last week, and she also expressed concern for you.”

Last week. 

(He had seen Neeluu last week. Had watched her walk away, eyes wide and watery. Had stood rooted to the spot as she’d told him, confessed to him, her feelings for him.)

“I see.” 

(Did all of Silvermoon know how weak he’d been? How confused?)

Liadrin looked as though she would reach across the chasm of desk and place her hand on his, but she didn’t. Their relationship didn’t allow for it.

“I know we have never been particularly close,” she told him, “but should you need to talk, my door is always open.” 

(He could not talk to her. She was too close to Lor’themar, who was too close to Halduron. He should trust her to keep confidence － she always had － and yet he couldn’t.)

“Mother?” came a sleepy voice, and both heads swiveled in the direction of the couch, where Salandria was yawning, stretching her gangly limbs beneath her blanket. 

“Yes, sweetheart?” Liadrin answered, gentle in a way Rommath had never heard before.

“Are we… are you done yet?” The little girl sat up, rubbing at her eyes. Her cornsilk hair was mussed and in her face and she brushed it back impatiently.

“Not yet. Be a good girl,” the Blood Matriarch said, “and stay quiet for a little longer. I’m meeting with Magister Rommath.”

 _Grand Magister,_ he thought, but did not say.

“Mister Rommath?” Salandria flipped over on the couch, facing them now. Her eyes went wide. “Oh!”

 _Grand_ **_Magister_ ** _Rommath._

And then she was scrambling to get clear of the blanket, throwing it to the floor in her haste and flying across the room until she was at Liadrin’s side, nearly climbing over the woman in her eagerness. “You never come here!” 

His brain was going a mile a minute but he pushed aside all the thoughts of Neeluu and Astalor and smiled at Salandria. He’d always had a fondness for children. “I’m very busy,” he told her. “Your mother invited me today.”

“Oh!” Salandria exclaimed. “Is it… is it about Aunt Neeluu?”

Rommath blanched. 

“Salandria,” Liadrin admonished, smoothing the little girl’s hair from her forehead. 

(He really was making a laughingstock of himself, wasn’t he? He didn’t know if he preferred it when everyone gossiped that he was a traitor.)

“Uncle Astalor said－” Salandria stood still as Liadrin fixed the butterfly clip behind her ear, but every inch of her small body positively _vibrated_ “－Uncle Astalor said Aunt Neeluu was talking about you!”

“Yes,” he said woodenly. “I’d… heard.”

(Rommath never thought evil could come in the form of a seven year old.)

Her eyes sparkled. “He said Aunt Neeluu kiiiissed you,” she sang. 

(Rommath wanted to die right there.)

“Did he now?” He struggled to keep his voice even. He would not be undone by a child.

“Hush,” Liadrin chided. “You were not meant to hear that conversation, and you should not be speaking of it to other people.”

“But it’s about Mister Rommath!” Salandria protested. She turned back to him. “I love Aunt Neeluu. She’s really nice. Do you love Aunt Neeluu?”

(This was how he died. Mortified at a child’s words. His reputation in shambles.)

Liadrin, kindly, made no mention of the sorry state of his nerves. “Sweetheart, leave Magister Rommath alone. I didn’t ask him here to accost him.”

“What’s… what’s _a cost?”_

“It means pester him with questions until you’re blue in the face,” Liadrin explained, booping her daughter on the nose. 

“My face can turn blue?!” Salandria stared. Liadrin laughed.

“I’m almost done here,” she said. “Go collect your things so we can walk Magister Rommath out.” And she watched a moment until Salandria dashed off, no doubt to find whatever had occupied her time while she’d been waiting for her mother.

Rommath felt as though he’d been slapped in the face. He didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing.

“Apologies,” Liadrin said, her eyes back on him. “She’s been a little unruly. We’re working on it.”

“It’s fine,” he said breathlessly. “Children… children are like that.”

Salandria returned after a moment, clutching a knapsack overflowing with colored papers and toys, and Rommath nodded along as she chattered excitedly about her day as if they were old friends. She slipped her hand in Liadrin’s and the three of them left the office, trooped up the spiral staircase and out onto Murder Row into the warm twilight. 

“Say goodnight, Salandria. Magister Rommath has to be getting home.”

“Goodnight!” Salandria waved enthusiastically, and Rommath returned with a wave of his own. He watched them walk, not to the Court of the Sun but onto Farstrider’s Enclave, where Lor’themar kept his home, and he said not a word.

What _was_ he supposed to say in the face of _Uncle Astalor says Aunt Neeluu kiiiiissed you_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoooo boy, I had so many ideas, so many rewrites, so many edits. I have an idea for next chapter so I cut this one off a bit early before it ridiculously long.
> 
> Rommath. I think, when literally everyone can tell you're not yourself, you should probably sit yourself down and ask why that is. And maybe work on it a bit. I'm sure there are therapists somewhere.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rommath visits Magister's Terrace for the first time since he found Kael's body. It goes about as well as you'd expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're deviating from format here. This chapter should be in the past but for reasons, we're still in the present.

Captain Tyrael Flamekissed was furious. It was an emotion he felt often these days.

Tyrael had never liked the Grand Magister. No, that wasn’t quite true. As a boy, sneaking off with Prince Kael’thas and Thalorien and Astalor － he had been alright then. He had kept to himself, him and his high society friends, as it should be. As it should have stayed. 

And then the Lady Neeluu went to Dalaran. 

He didn’t know when it started, when the protectiveness curling in his heart turned to longing. He had just made lieutenant, he remembered. The day had been sunny and the warm breeze brought with it the smells of the ocean and flowers. In the distance, murloc tadpoles shrieked, just barely heard above the waves. He and the other adepts stood, shoulders squared and backs straight, as Warden Dawnseeker read to them the Dawn’s Code. As they’d sworn to lay down their lives to protect the Sunwell. The Light of Dawn, elegant and sure in cloth-of-gold robes, had stepped forward and one by one, fastened a golden phoenix to their uniforms. Her delicate hands had touched him lightly, just enough to grasp the fabric and push the pin through, and their eyes met. Blue on hazel. Neeluu smiled at him, and he knew. All those years watching the Dawnseekers intermingle with common folk, the kindness they showed and the love they received in return. The way his eyes would catch on long black hair, his ears flicking at the swish of skirts. Volunteering to guard the family, the Light of Dawn, whenever they left the manor… Tyrael knew then, as the Light of Dawn’s eyes dropped and she stepped away to present the next pin, that he was in love with her. Warden and Sunwell and Anasterian be damned － as he watched Lady Neeluu take her place beside her father, the sun shining on them all, he knew he would sacrifice them all for her.

And then she went to Dalaran.

Lady Neeluu as a child hadn’t interacted much with the prince and his friends, but she knew of them, and they of her. Tyrael had been assigned as house guard the season she had returned, full of stories and laughter, of her new friends. Of Lady Jaina Proudmoore and Lady Capernian, Lord Telonicus and Astalor Bloodsworn, Prince Kael’thas and _Rommath._ Oh, how jealousy had raged within him when she spoke of how clever Rommath was, how brilliant. How the hatred rose within him when she spoke of Telonicus and Kael’thas and Astalor and Rommath. It burned inside him, scorched his lungs until he could barely breathe. And so it went, year after year. 

One Noblegarden, he made the long, harrowing trip to the Warden’s manor. He could bear it no longer － he would ask Warden Dawnseeker for permission to court the Lady Neeluu. He was a Lieutenant of the Dawnblade － a respectable match for a woman of her status. His nerves nearly turned him around. Butterflies flitted angrily in his stomach. Sweat gathered along his hairline and under his arms. He reached the door of the study, laid a hand on the door handle －

And froze. 

Standing outside the Warden’s study, he heard it. Heard Warden Dawnseeker and Grand Magister Belo’vir, and they were _talking about Lady Neeluu._

“The king likes the idea,” Belo’vir was saying. “He summoned Rommath － surely no one knows Prince Kael’thas better.”

“What did he say?” the Warden asked. 

“No one would be a finer match for the prince than Lady Neeluu,” Belo’vir answered. “Prince Kael’thas needs a calm, steady presence by his side, and your daughter has proven she possesses a level head and sound mind.”

Tyrael’s heart sank. 

“Rommath says no one has such an effect on Kael’thas as Neeluu.”

If the Warden were considering marrying his daughter to the crown prince… 

Tyrael would never be good enough. He was only a soldier. A _spellblade,_ but… in no way a match for Prince Kael’thas.

The announcement came several days later. The citizens of Dawnstar Village celebrated. Tyrael drank sullenly with his unit. 

_Rommath_ was to blame. Tyrael clenched his fists. _Rommath_ had planted the idea in Warden Dawnseeker’s head. It was _Rommath’s_ fault. 

Tyrael _hated_ him.

Prince Kael’thas was dead now. Thalorien Dawnseeker was dead, and his father too. The Lady Neeluu was now Warden of the Sunwell, a position far above his own. A position so high above him that the idea of asking for her hand was laughable. Neeluu now held the most highly ranked position in the kingdom, and Tyrael Flamekissed had never felt more destitute. 

Until he’d heard her confess to Astalor Bloodsworn. Heard her say the words that stilled his very heart. “Astalor,” she’d asked him, “what do you know of Rommath?”

(She and Bloodsworn had become good friends in Dalaran. Tyrael found himself disliking the man less, the more he learned of the familial affection Bloodsworn held for her.)

“Rommath?” Bloodsworn had seemed surprised. “You would know as well as I.”

And Neeluu had smiled, and that smile had told Tyrael all he’d needed to know. His lady _fancied_ bloody _Rommath._ As if Rommath hadn’t done enough to him already!

And oh, Tyrael had raged. Had scowled and snarked and sneered. What had the traitor done to wrap the Lady Neeluu into his web? How could he think that what once belonged to a prince could possibly be his?

(And his heart wept, because should the Lightdamned mage want her, the new regent lord might actually approve, while he would never approve of a Dawnblade captain.)

Tyrael Flamekissed was furious as he watched the Lady Neeluu return home, crestfallen and pale. He had had to _stand there_ and _watch_ as his love confessed to the Grand Magister, and it had taken everything in him not to step forward and shout _My Lady, please! I have loved you for three centuries, and if you would have me, I would make you the happiest woman on Azeroth._

But he said nothing, and waited with clenched teeth for the Grand Magister’s answer. It slapped him in the face, the shock that Rommath _didn’t want her._ And with a murderous glare he had followed his lady back to the Warden’s manor, and the pained look in her eyes as she bid him goodnight broke his heart all over again. 

“My Lady,” he asked her the next morning, “are you alright?” 

“Of course, my dear Tyrael.” But her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes and Tyrael could see the traces of glamour on her face. She was hurt by the Grand Magister’s rejection, and Tyrael didn’t know which to hate the man more for. Casting her aside, or selling her to the prince all those years ago. 

* * *

“Regent Lord, you cannot move.”

“Fuck. Sorry.”

A beat.

“Sir, please stop slouching. Your back must be straight.”

“Right.”

A few moments of the sounds of graphite on paper. And then －

“Sir!”

Rommath rolled his eyes. He’d known when Lor’themar agreed to a statue that it would become his problem. The ranger kept shifting from one foot to the other, scratching under his eyepatch, turning his head at the slightest distraction.

“Where is your legendary patience, Lor’themar?” Rommath snapped. “We could have finished this an hour ago.” Beside him, the artist suppressed a groan as Lor’themar dropped the pose entirely.

“It’s hot,” Lor’themar complained. He pulled at his cloak. “Must I wear all this armor?”

Rommath’s eyes narrowed. “Yes.” He would not have the Regent Lord looking a fool for this commission. 

“Surely I could hold a bow instead?” He hefted the great broadsword Rommath had plied him with. “I have never in my life used a sword like this.” 

“The people equate swords with power,” Rommath snapped. “All of Silvermoon’s rulers have held swords for commemorative pieces.”

Lor’themar scowled. “I would look more natural with a bow,” he muttered. 

“Statues are not about _natural,_ Regent Lord,” the artist said helpfully. “Statues are meant to convey authority and prestige.” 

“And you’ve carved many, have you?” the ranger snipped.

“I have, and of far more difficult subjects than you.” (Rommath remembered this man, remembered commissioning him for the arduous task of creating Kael from stone, impressing upon him that the prince must look competent and regal and _familiar_ all at once. Kael had been a great deal more frustrating than Lor’themar, but at least he had stood still.)

“Can’t Halduron do it? He _wants_ a statue.”

“We are not giving Brightwing a statue,” Rommath growled. “The people asked for _you_ and they will get _you.”_

Lor’themar scowled, but at Rommath’s glare he stepped back into position, hands clasped around the hilt of the sword. Rommath watched as he arranged his face, wiped the frown off his too wide mouth and lifted his brows. With his chin tilted upward, he looked every inch a ruler. 

He looked nearly like a Sunstrider. 

_“Why would you entrust the kingdom to a ranger?” Rommath demanded. “Appoint me in your stead or you will return to anarchy!”_

_And Kael had looked at him, weary to his bones, and said, “He is my cousin, Rommath. I have faith in him.”_

His faith hadn’t been misplaced, Rommath thought. The people trusted Lor’themar more than they ever had Kael. Lor’themar had led them out of the horrors of the Scourge, his administrative planning taking painstaking account of the thousands of displaced elves, the food shortages, the burned forests and homeless wildlife. Under the reign of Lor’themar Theron, Silvermoon had begun to flourish once more. Homelessness and starvation were things of the past, the forests had begun to regrow, the Sunwell had been restored. For all his complaining that he was not fit to rule, was not the leader Quel’Thalas deserved, he had become the leader the country _needed._ For all Rommath’s protests in the past, Lor’themar Theron was _good_ at his job.

If only the pageantry suffered, then that was no loss at all.

“Pardon. Grand Magister?” Rommath and Lor’themar turned (“Regent Lord!” moaned the artist), but it was only Erindae. With a nod, Rommath beckoned her forward and she placed a thick envelope in his outstretched hand. “Magister Astalor has sent the preliminary designs for the reconstruction of Magister’s Terrace. He requests your approval as soon as possible.”

“Thank you, Erindae.” Rommath slid the heavy parchment from the envelope and studied it. As he’d ordered, changes were minimal; the Terrace was to be rebuilt exactly as it had been. He skimmed the notes Astalor had included and nodded to himself. His friend was of the same mind: Preserving the heritage of the sin’dorei was of the utmost importance.

Pleased, he replaced the parchment and tucked it under his arm. “Thank you, Erindae,” he said again. “Inform Astalor I will be on the isle by day’s end, so that we may speak in person.” 

(He had much to say to Astalor, and very little of it involved Magister’s Terrace. With any luck, they would not speak long of it at all.)

His apprentice bowed. “Right away, Grand Magister,” she said, turning smartly on her heel and exiting the room. Lor’themar glanced at him.

“May I point out that the automation with which your apprentice carries herself is unsettling?” he mused.

“You may not,” Rommath snapped. “Just because you and Brightwing can’t be bothered to train your assistants doesn’t mean we're all so lax.”

“My assistant is properly trained,” Lor’themar protested.

“Then where is he at this moment?” Rommath shot back. One should always know the whereabouts of his subordinates. As he spoke, he knew his apprentice would be slipping through one of the lesser used passages back to his office, to write and seal his notice to Astalor.

Lor’themar didn’t meet his gaze. “I have sent him on an errand.”

Rommath snorted. “And where is this errand?”

A pause. “Around the Spire.”

It was well known that Lor’themar despised his aides and bodyguards, seeing them as nothing more than unwarranted babysitters. But “around the Spire” was unacceptable, and Rommath groaned. 

“If your assistant were a ranger, you would know.”

“If my assistant were a ranger, I would not be here drowning in armor and arguing with you,” Lor’themar countered.

“Regent Lord, _please_ stand still!”

* * *

Astalor was not at his cottage, as Rommath had thought, nor at the memorial gravesite. He was not at the harbor, though Magister Ilastar made mention that Astalor had been by earlier that day. Rommath suppressed a groan of frustration and thanked the man before mounting his hawkstrider once more.

He took the bird up the winding path to the remains of the Terrace. Perhaps － and it would make sense － Astalor was waiting for him there.

The guards nodded to him as he passed through the gilded doors and Rommath suppressed a shudder. He had not set foot in the Terrace since Kael’s death. He had not been able to. 

Once, the Magister’s Terrace had been alive with the brightest minds in Quel’Thalas. Mages from all over the kingdom gathered to work complicated spells and perform the most delicate research, drawing on the Sunwell’s power for their work. One half of the building faced the sea, with wide windows and open architecture to allow for the breeze to come in off the waves. High ranking magisters conducted studies here, and once crystals of all colors glimmered from every room. In the fall of the Sunwell, the crystals had been smashed, columns crumbled, sensitive instruments exploded. The last time Rommath had been in the Terrace, glass crunched underfoot, and he’d had to climb over rubble and dead bodies. 

The Terrace was empty now, its white tiles dirty but cleared of debris. It was surreal, walking in this dead place and hearing nothing but his own footsteps.

No. Not just his own steps. There were sounds drifting down from the destroyed staircase. People.

“－think we could do that, yes－”

“－what about－”

“－and we could commission－”

Sighing, Rommath carefully picked his way upstairs. He followed the voices to the old Convocation Hall, where Astalor stood with Exarch Larethor and Neeluu. Off to the side stood Captain Flamekissed, whose eyes darted in his direction and then narrowed. 

“Grand Magister,” the spellblade muttered, nodding his head almost imperceptibly. Rommath decided to ignore the disrespect.

“Good afternoon,” he announced to the room, and Astalor looked over his shoulder before turning to face him.

“I was wondering when you would grace us with your presence,” his friend said cheekily. “I thought I would be here until nightfall.”

“I was otherwise occupied wrangling a certain Regent Lord,” Rommath replied. He nodded to the draenei, bowed his head to Neeluu.

“Well, you’re here now,” Astalor said. “Neeluu and I were conferring with the exarch on the reconstruction. I trust that you approved of the design?”

Neeluu smiled at him in welcome, stepping back to make way for him to insert himself beside her and Astalor. She wore dark purple silk, not Silvermoon red, and carried a matching fan to ward off the heat. From her ears dripped the emeralds Kael had gifted her twelve years previous. The ones that matched her ring. Rommath averted his eyes.

“If I didn’t, I would have sent more than just a letter,” he said smoothly. “What were the plans for this hall again?”

The draenei spoke, his deep, accented Thalassian echoing in the quiet room. “Magister Astalor has asked that we restore the mosaic on the floor.” He gestured to the ruined tiles. “I have an artist in mind, but it will take her some time.”

Rommath waved a hand at him dismissively. “Fine.” He wasn’t pleased that the Shattered Sun were still here, or rebuilding the Terrace － their enemies should not see one of their most important and secret fonts of knowledge － but he did understand that Silvermoon still lacked the manpower for such an undertaking. Many stonemasons and artists had been contracted already to restore the Hall of Blood and the Court of the Sun, and the raw manpower needed to lift such heavy materials was currently employed in clearing out Western Silvermoon of the Wretched. “I suspect it will become a council room?” 

“Most likely,” Astalor answered. “I’ve asked Neeluu to work on the interior. She has a better knack for procuring materials than I.”

Neeluu colored. “It is not difficult to order fabric for curtains or commission curios,” she said humbly. Astalor laughed.

“Then you simply have the patience to do what I do not,” he amended. 

Rommath raised an eyebrow. Astalor’s taste had always been impeccable, and more than once, he had sat waiting outside a Dalaranian shop － cursing － as he and Kael fawned over some useless item or other. 

(Although that had been eons before he’d married Auriel, and Rommath did not doubt that Auriel had never been the type to decorate or shop. He decided to say nothing. The less time spent in the Terrace, the better.)

“We should start with the royal study,” Exarch Larethor interjected. “Should it not pass to the Grand Magister?”

Rommath froze. 

“That would be best, I think,” said Astalor mildly. “Belo’vir’s was never much to look at. I always thought it lacked the power of his office.”

The last time Rommath had stepped into that room － Kael’s study － had been nearly one year ago. The floor had been covered in soot; it had stained his robes, and his feet left imprints when he walked. The walls had been scorched, the furniture smoldering gently with green smoke.

“Belo’vir and Vandellor shared a study, if I remember correctly,” Neeluu quipped. “I saw it once, with my father.”

Flamekissed nodded. “I don’t believe the previous Grand Magister came here often,” he put in. “Didn’t want to take up unnecessary space, as he put it.”

Kael’s body had lain to one side of the room, crumpled and broken. The fel crystal in his chest shattered. His head lay some feet away, and the bloody stump of his neck had stained the carpet. It had been a beautiful purple once, Rommath remembered, from the reign of Dath'Remar. 

“There are wards in the room,” the draenei cautioned. “I would require a spellbreaker or two to start working.”

“I will lend you a team of Dawnblades,” the Sunwell Warden offered. “I’m sure you will find many more wards throughout the building.”

Rommath remembered _shoving his way past the guards_ － _Silvermoon guards, with their tower shields and pikes. “Let me through! Let me through!”_

 _No one stopped him. He was the Grand Magister. There were bodies on the floor, but Rommath ignored them. A cursory glance told him what he’d needed to know. Dark hair, female, melted plate armor_ － _none of them were worth the effort of identification. Not by him._

_“It’s not safe!” someone cried behind him, but Rommath ignored that too. He drew his cowl around his nose and mouth and stumbled over the broken furniture, the chunks of smashed column. His eyes burned in the smoke, and a sickly green fire burned near the center of the room. A circle of flame, tainted with fel energy, and at its core…_

_Rommath felt his heart drop into his stomach._

_The robes marked him immediately. Made from that strange nether cloth, they glimmered eerily in the green light. They were dark from soot, but the embroidered phoenixes were still visible. The same robes Rommath had seen in the city. The body was prone on the floor, one hand clawing at nothing and the other outstretched, fingertips singed. It was unmistakably Kael._

_Rommath stumbled as though he’d been struck. He’d feared_ － _he’d known, deep down_ － _but those monsters_ － _Silvermoon’s own…_

_They had cut off his head._

_He fell to his knees and retched. His eyes streamed, raw and burning in the smoke. The head had rolled, he saw, blood staining the golden curtain of hair, and his eyes were dull, lifeless things staring at him without seeing._

_They had told him Kael was dead, but no one had prepared him for this. Nothing could have prepared him for this._

_“Grand Magister!” came a_ voice, and it sounded very far away. His vision swam.

“Rommath!” said another. It echoed in his ears. He felt as though he were stepping into the ruined Terrace for the first time. The last time.

“Move aside! Give him some space!”

“Should I fetch a healer?”

“Let him catch his breath.”

He was gasping for air. He felt like he was drowning. What was wrong with him? He had accepted that Kael was dead. Why was the place he’d died affecting him so?

He was dimly aware of hands grasping his own. Through the pulse throbbing in his ears he heard “Rommath” and “look at me” and “breathe.” He couldn’t focus on any one thing and his eyes watered. 

“Breathe,” came the voice again. “Shall I breathe with you?” And then, “It’s alright. Let’s breathe in… and then out… In… and out…” And he tried to listen but it was like trying to hold water, the sound slipping from between his fingers, and when his eyes finally welled and overflowed he caught a glimpse of royal purple and the bloodied, soiled carpet charged to the forefront of his mind once again.

(What was _happening_ to him?)

After a long time he realized dully that he was sitting down, or perhaps he’d collapsed, and the calm voice instructing him to breathe belonged to Neeluu, her eyes wide and concerned. Larethor was gone (for a healer, no doubt), and so was Flamekissed, leaving Neeluu sitting before him, their hands entwined, and Astalor fretting somewhere to his left, picking at the sleeve of his robe so hard he’d ripped it.

“There,” Neeluu said gently, when the sounds returned and his breathing slowed. The deep scar in his chest ached. “There,” she said again. “It’s alright.”

“－should’ve realized,” Astalor was muttering. “Should’ve done this somewhere else － I wasn’t thinking － Rommath, I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

Neeluu’s gaze was transfixed on his face, her eyebrows knitted together. It was too hot in the Hall. They were all perspiring.

“It never even occurred to me － you’ve always told me － and I just went and－”

“Astalor,” Rommath croaked. “Shut up.”

The prattling cut off abruptly, and Astalor came into his field of vision, kneeling beside Neeluu. Rommath took his hands back from her. Shakily adjusted his collar.

“The exarch went for a healer,” Astalor told him breathlessly.

“I don’t － don’t want a healer,” he groused. 

“I think,” Neeluu said kindly, “we should return to the manor. The fresh air would do you well.” 

* * *

Rommath elected to stay the night. He had not the energy for portalling nor the flight home. He felt drained and sore and shamed. He felt three thousand years old.

He had come to terms with Kael’s death, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he? So why should the Terrace affect him so? Why had the awful memory of Kael’s death risen from the ashes? 

He had refused to dine with Neeluu and a frantic Astalor, instead retiring immediately to his room. He had not looked at the door across the hall as he’d let himself in. Not let himself become overcome with memories again. He’d peeled off his robes, drenched in cold sweat, and burrowed immediately into his bed, despite the lingering heat of the day. He wished for Kim’alah and her small comforts.

He wasn’t asleep when he heard the knock. He hadn’t even the energy to feign it. He heard the soft shuffling footsteps and click of the lock and was too tired to even cover his naked chest, arcane tattoos a stark contrast to the pale of his skin.

“Rommath?” It was Neeluu. She held a tray in her hands, a light meal of greens and fruit and bread and tea. She didn’t bother asking if he wanted it, merely set it down on the table in the middle of the room. “In case you’re hungry,” she said softly. And with a small frown, she crossed the room to open the window, letting the blessedly cool breeze wash over them both.

He knew what they were doing was inappropriate － the Lady Neeluu should not be in his rooms and he should have donned a dressing gown － but he was a shattered, fragile thing and for once in his life he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, almost inaudible. “I’m sorry for the trouble.”

And Neeluu shook her head, a lock of fine black hair tumbling over her shoulder. “It’s no trouble,” she assured him gently. “We all have scars, Rommath. Sometimes they need a little more time to heal.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t look at her.

“Stay as long as you need,” she told him. “This room has always been yours.” He heard her begin to leave.

“Neeluu,” he said, and her footsteps stopped. 

“Yes?”

He didn’t know when he’d realized it. A long time ago, perhaps, a footnote tucked into the corner of his brain, to be perused later but sadly forgotten. “You don’t do magic anymore,” he said quietly. And whatever Neeluu had been expecting him to say, that was not it. 

“Pardon?” He could picture her, the confusion and hesitation on her face. Long before the Scourge, the glimmer of snow in her pale blue eyes and the ice at her fingertips. Melted now. Gone.

“Why did you stop?” he asked. Why hadn’t it occurred to him before? Why had he never asked her? She stood frozen to the spot, a fistful of her own robes in one hand. “Was it because of the Scourge?”

The saturation of fel in her eyes had taken much longer than it should have, her irises greening so gradually as to be unnoticeable. Even Lor’themar and Halduron had succumbed more quickly, using the little magic that rangers did.

And then －

“I don’t… I can’t _.”_ Her voice was a whisper. "I _can't,_ Rommath." And Rommath understood then. Just as he had been born of fire, Neeluu had been kissed by frost. Once upon a time, she had used that magic to blow cool breezes during the summer heats, start snowball fights with Jaina Proudmoore in the Dalaranian gardens, freeze the undead army as they invaded the city. But the Scourge － _Arthas Menethil_ － had used frost magic too. While Rommath’s fire gave him power, the frost had been weakened, tainted. 

“How can I…” Her voice caught, and she started again. “How can I practice the same magic that killed our people?” 

Necromancy killed their people. Necromancy had pulled the dead from the graves, animated them where they stood. Necromancy had destroyed Silvermoon and southern Quel’Thalas… and frost had brought Arthas to the Sunwell. 

Rommath hung his head. Neither spoke for a long time. 

“We all have scars,” he repeated, sighing. “I… am not the man I once was, Neeluu.” He took a shaky breath. “I am…” Beaten. Broken. Fragmented. Destroyed. “Weak.”

For several long moments, there was no sound save their ragged breathing. What a fool he had been, to think he could forget Kael. Kael was a part of him. Would always be part of him.

And then Neeluu spoke, her lips upturned in a wobbly smile. “No,” she said softly. “You are not weak. We are none of the us the people we once were, Rommath. That is why we still live.” 

His heart clenched at her words, but she was bidding him goodnight and shutting his door and he didn’t know what he would have said to her anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only own an old laptop (like, really old. I think it's from 2008?) and it overheats easily. I actually can't use it during the day because the temperature has been between 85-94F, so all my writing and computering is done at night. Makes me sad, man. Gives me plenty of time to develop an addiction to other things, like Persona Q2 and sleeping.
> 
> I have very carefully made sure to have magic be _there_ in Quel'Thalas, to just be a _thing_ all mages _do_ and have in them at all times. Rommath is very close to his element of fire - it's in his very soul, and his anger and sorrow are always described as burning. I also tried to contrast pre-Scourge Neeluu with post-Scourge Neeluu. Pre-Scourge Neeluu lived for magic, and she really was only good at frost, not even passable at arcane like Rommath and Jaina. Magic was something she lived and breathed in Dalaran, and if you've been paying attention, she's never used magic in the present.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The body of Anasterian has been found, and neither Rommath nor Kael can cope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Sorry everyone! My health isn't great and on top of that, I had serious writer's block for this chapter. How do you even follow up the Scourge attack in the last past chapter?
> 
> WARNING: There are no graphic depictions in this chapter, but some of the deaths mentioned are not pretty.

Rommath knew the moment Liadrin ran from the room that whatever news the messenger bore was not good. All the days in the previous two weeks had set a disturbing precedent in that regard. He sighed and sank into his chair, massaging his temple with one hand. How much suffering must they endure?

“Lor’themar!” came Liadrin’s strangled yell. “It’s Galell!” 

“What?” Theron was on his feet so quickly the chair tipped over. “Ga－ Is he alright?” And he too was out the door, Brightwing on his heels. It had been like this constantly since Kael’s arrival, and neither Kael nor Rommath had the heart to forbid them their leaving. The Farstriders had suffered great losses in the attack, and every new survivor was to be cherished.

Kael exhaled, a soft sound in the otherwise busy Bloodsworn apartments. “Praise the Sunwell,” he murmured, “for another soul safe.” Beside him, Astalor nodded mutely. 

“Come, come. Sit. Drink.” The rangers were back, their faces pale, followed by Liadrin. A bedraggled elf leaned heavily against her side, and she helped him sit in Theron’s righted chair. Brightwing pressed a goblet into the elf’s hands and he drank deeply.

“Th-thank you,” he gasped. “I came… as soon as… as soon as I could.”

“A miracle you are safe,” Kael said kindly. “Are you injured?”

The elf － Galell － shook his head impatiently. His chestnut hair was thick with snarls and burs, and his face bore awful scratches. His arm he held an odd angle, and Rommath thought it might be broken. “Your Highness,” he wheezed. “I’m sorry. I bear grave news.” His breath caught, and he choked.

There was something familiar about the man; Rommath couldn’t quite place him. He wasn’t a mage, not in those robes… Perhaps he had been healing with Auriel?

“It’s alright now,” Liadrin soothed. “Galell, you’re home. You’re safe now.” She tried to hug him, but the other elf pushed her away.

“I’m so sorry,” Galell croaked. And with a chill up his spine, Rommath remembered.

_The priest at the docks._

He had volunteered to shepherd the boat of Silvermoon’s most precious cargo, the children Rommath had shipped to safety in the Hinterlands.

“What happened?” Rommath roared, on the edge of his seat. “Why are you not with the Wildhammers?”

“Rommath!” Astalor gasped. He reached for Rommath's arm. 

Galell’s lower lip wobbled, his mouth contorting around the words. Tears began to leak from the corners of his eyes, thin trickles cutting sharply through the grime on his cheeks. “We… they…” He wrung his hands.

“ _What happened?_ ” Rommath was on his feet now. He thought he was shouting. “ _Where are they?_ ”

“Gargoyles,” Galell choked out. “We were attacked － they － it was －” He buried his face in his hands. “－a slaughter!－”

Liadrin’s eyes went wide. Rommath’s blood ran cold. 

“－no survivors－”

Beside him, Brightwing clenched his fists and Theron paled. 

Rommath couldn’t breathe. He had ordered that ship to sail. He had evacuated those children. _Silvermoon’s children!_ He made them so vulnerable, out on the open sea. No protection save for one lowly priest. No protection at all.

“－should have been me!” Galell wailed. Liadrin wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

“No, no,” she soothed. “It wasn’t your fault!”

_It was mine._

“I should have died!”

“You did everything you could!” That was Theron, placing a large hand on the elf’s bruised shoulder.

_I sent those children to their deaths._

His legs turned to water and he fell back heavily into his chair. His heart pounded. 

“－couldn’t fight them － so many－”

_They drowned, alone and afraid, and it’s my fault._

“－tried to save them－”

“Hush,” Liadrin breathed, hugging him harder as he moaned. “It’s alright.” She was crying, tears flowing freely. “There was nothing else you could have done.”

_I should have gone with them. It should have been me._

The meeting fell apart after that. Liadrin took Galell to be seen by a healer and they sedated him. The poor man had become hysterical, shrieking that he shouldn't be alive, that he had killed all those children. Rommath excused himself, unable to bear the weight of what he’d done. He found himself a quiet room － a cupboard, really － and wept.

* * *

Rommath felt haunted. During the few precious hours he managed to sleep, his dreams were filled with the children he had killed － drowned, mutilated, eviscerated. They cried for him in his dreams, reached for him, but he was never able to save them. He dreamed he was on the boat, the children crowding around him desperately, their faces pale with fear, but his protective barrier shattered, none of his spells made contact with rough gargoyle flesh. He could only watch, helpless, as the monsters tore into the screaming children, ripped them from his arms, threw them into the sea.

He didn’t sleep much anymore. Not that he had in the first place.

(Auriel had offered to brew a dreamless sleep potion but he’d refused. One look at her, stretched beyond her limits with the wounded and the dying, and he couldn’t ask anything else of her. And, deep down, he knew he deserved these nightmares. He should have done better. It would be cowardly to drug them away.)

Rommath wasn’t the only one surviving on coffee and adrenaline. He watched dully as Kael poured himself his third － or was it fourth? － cup of coffee and then took the pot from him to do the same. His head ached and his stomach growled. How many days had passed since Galell had dragged himself back to the city with his terrible news?

“Your Highness.” Captain Fireheart strode into the room, his shoulders drooping and his jaw tight. Kael sighed and put his cup down; Rommath steeled himself for the worst. The head of Kael's guard rarely left his post, did not play newsboy.

“Your father, sir,” Fireheart said urgently. “He’s been found.”

“My father?” Kael was on his feet in an instant. “Is he－?”

Any other man would have looked away, but not Selin Fireheart. He faced his prince bravely, the pain laid bare for all to see. Even Rommath could not have met Kael’s eyes with the words Fireheart said next.

“The reports were correct, Your Highness. He’s dead.” A pause. “I’m sorry.”

Kael swayed a little where he stood and Rommath automatically reached out, only to be shoved roughly away. “Take me to him,” his prince demanded, and his voice did not waver. “Take me to my father.” 

  
  


The air in the tavern was solemn. Guards stood tall outside the entrance, keeping away curious onlookers. They bowed as Kael passed. 

Two men sat on the floor in the main hall. They were exhausted, their skin streaked with blood and grime, and patiently answering the questions put to them by a Farstrider. On the scrubbed wooden table lay Anasterian, his abdomen bisected by an ugly slash. Dried blood covered him like a second skin. And if hearing all of the terrible news in the past ten days had been bad, absolutely nothing could have compared to the sight of the dead king, laid out on a table like a fine roast dragonhawk. Suppressing a strangled cry, Kael flew to his father. Took one of the king’s hands in his own. Laid a hand on his face. The king did not stir, pale and cold before his living son. 

(Rommath forced himself not to look away. He owed Anasterian this. He owed Anasterian everything.) 

“Who has returned my father to me?” His voice was a shaky, forced thing, threatening to shatter under the pressure of his own emotions. The Farstrider turned.

“Solanar and Falon Sunwrath,” she said, gesturing to the men. With their pale hair and straight, thick noses, they looked to be brothers.

“We removed the king’s body from the battlefield as soon as we were able, Your Highness,” said one. His robes were filthy, but the gold collar marked him as a high ranking priest. “We could not let him be raised as Scourge.”

“You did well,” Rommath told them. His words sounded hollow in the airless room.

“See to it that the Sunwraths are properly rewarded,” Kael ordered, to no one in particular. “Have their wounds tended to.” He had not looked away from his father’s body.

Fireheart bowed smartly. “Yes, Your Highness.” 

“You may leave now,” his prince croaked. “All of you. Get out.”

The captain paused. “Your Highness?”

“I would like to be alone with my father.” 

There was a moment where no one moved. Then Rommath nodded at Fireheart, and the Sunwraths began the arduous process of pulling themselves once more to their feet. 

“Take them to the Bloodsworn apartments,” Rommath told the Farstrider. “Astalor will see that they are taken care of.” The Farstrider bowed, and then slung the arm of one brother over her shoulder, and together the three of them hobbled out. 

“I will be just outside, Your Highness,” Fireheart told Kael, and when Kael said nothing, he too left, his boots clumping their way over the dirty floor.

Rommath placed a hand on his prince’s shoulder. “Would you like me to stay?” he asked quietly. _I'm sorry, Kael. I'm so, so sorry._

“Get out.” 

There was no malice in Kael’s voice, no anger. Only sadness. Though Kael was not looking at him, Rommath nodded in answer and squeezed his friend’s shoulder. Tried to give what little comfort he could before dropping his hand. A lump had formed in his throat. As the door closed behind him, he heard a low moan and a wet, gasping sob. 

* * *

Something was wrong. Rommath could feel it in his bones. The very air was tinged with more than just death, and the fire within him felt polluted, billowing acidic smoke. Casting flames left him with a tight feeling in his chest, left him more tired than it should. He attributed it all to the grief, the shock, but it all felt... _wrong._

The funeral of Anasterian was held in the newly reclaimed Bazaar. Fitting, Rommath thought, for it was Anasterian who had had a hand in its restoration in his youth. Situated neatly between the eastern and western halves of the city, uniting the elite of Feth’s Way and Dawning Lane with the royal quarter of the Court of the Sun and the common folk of the Walk of Elders, the Bazaar had joined the high and low classes with its upscale boutiques and cafes juxtaposed seamlessly with common shops and taverns. The large gate between the Bazaar and western Silvermoon had been sealed － that part of the city was no longer theirs, still belonged to the dead － and the buildings smashed, but the large central fountain was still intact. Was clean and free of death. And it was by that fountain that Kael had constructed a funeral pyre and placed the body of Anasterian. 

(The funeral pyre filled Rommath with unease. Never before had a king of Quel’Thalas been cremated, their bodies having been interred deep in the underground crypt of the Sunspire since the time of Dath’Remar. But the brothers Sunwrath had said that the king had been slain by Arthas Menethil’s own cursed blade, and Kael would take no chances. To allow his father peace in the Shadowlands, he knew the king's body must be burned.)

Kael, his Kael, stood tall and proud before the survivors of Silvermoon. His voice rang out clear and strong. There would be no more kings in Quel’Thalas, he announced. Anasterian would be the last.

Rommath stood beside Theron and his second Halduron Brightwing as Kael spoke. Their brows were furrowed, Brightwing’s rimmed in red. Liadrin stood to his other side, her lips pressed together and her hands collapsed tightly before her. Neeluu, who had arrived quietly in the night, stood in place of her missing father and dead brother. They were none of them dressed for their stations － Theron wore not the badge and cloak of the Ranger General, still pinned to the shoulders of the undead Windrunner, and Liadrin’s robes were not the snow white of the office of High Priest. Belo’vir’s cape had been incinerated in Nallorath’s flames (and Rommath would _not_ think of Nallorath right now), and neither Neeluu nor Kael wore their crowns. It would have been cheap, Rommath thought, for them to dress so finely in the face of such devastation. It would not be what Anasterian himself would do. So they stood, in their cleanest clothes, and knew Anasterian would understand. 

Were Silvermoon not destroyed － were this a proper state funeral －they would be gathered in the Court of the Sun, and a double row of Silvermoon’s finest would escort the king’s coffin, draped in white silk and embroidered with the Sunstrider phoenix, through the city. Kael would follow twelve paces behind, garbed in mourning white and behind him the Convocation. The crowds would press close together, sobbing as they were now, crying Anasterian’s name, and in the Court of the Sun, nobles and leaders from all nations would gather to pay their respects. The Warden of the Sunwell would step forth, lead the nation in Lament of the Highborne. The song of the dead. The people would kneel as the coffin passed, as it was walked not up the bridge to the Spire and Palace but down a smaller, lesser used one. The bridge to the Sunstrider crypt, hidden by magic beside the other. The singing would not stop until Kael and his father both passed over the threshold of that ancient place, until the doors closed and the bridge shimmered back into inexistence. 

But they weren’t in the Court of the Sun, and Anasterian’s body would not join those of his Sunstrider ancestors. There was no music, there were no visiting dignitaries. The falling silence in the wake of Kael’s words blanketed them all. Rommath couldn’t breathe.

And then Neeluu stepped forward. Still clad in the purple of Dalaran, she was nonetheless recognizable for who she was. Her eyes shown with tears as she faced the citizens of Silvermoon － what was left of them. And she began to sing.

_Anar'alah, Anar'alah belore_

_Sin'dorei_

Sin’dorei. Children of blood. 

_So this is what we are now._

The words caught on the cool breeze, washing over Kael’s assembly of advisors and subjects. Some took up the song, the _sin’dorei_ howled, or gasped, or sobbed. Neeluu’s voice wavered, and her hands shook, but that didn’t matter. All eyes, dry and wet, were on the pyre as the sound of music filled the plaza, sweet and sad.

_Shindu fallah na_

_Sin'dorei_

_Anar'alah_

_Shindu Sin'dorei_

_Shindu fallah na_

_Sin'dorei_

Rommath stood beside Theron, whose commanding bark had been softened by song, and sweet-voiced Liadrin, but did not join them. Could not even mouth the words like the openly weeping Brightwing. Like Kael, he stood rigid, frozen. His lips would not cooperate. The words would not come. They, all who had gathered, were not only singing for Anasterian, beloved king and father. The people of Silvermoon were singing for all those they had lost in Arthas Menethil's attack, the fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, friends and children. And Rommath was painfully reminded as he stood there: He had no idea what had become of his own family. His parents and his brothers. No news had come out of Tranquillien, little and less from the south at all. All Rommath had in that moment, all that remained of his family, was his sister Auriel. Anasterian, who had been more of a father to him than his own, was dead. Belo'vir was dead. Nallorath, the one man who had actually loved him － dead. And all those children...

If he joined his voice to the chorus of the city, if he opened his mouth, he would break.

_Anar'alah belore_

_Shindu Sin'dorei_

_Shindu fallah na_

_Sin'dorei_

_Anar'alah belore_

_Belore_

With Neeluu at his side, Kael took up the torch. Lit it by his own hand. Wrapped in the Lament of the Highborne, Neeluu placed one delicate hand atop Kael’s own, and together, they set the pyre ablaze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anasterian's body was found by Solanar and Falon Bloodwrath (who, like many elves in canon, changed their name from Sunwrath in this story). Solanar becomes Liadrin's second in command and one of her first recruits. 
> 
> Anasterian's "state funeral" (the one he would've had if the Scourge hadn't happened) is based on the funerals of real world monarchs, the most recent being King Bhumibol of Thailand, who was beloved by his people. The funeral procession is based on Princess Diana's.
> 
> Lament of the Highborne has a fascinating in-game history, going back 10,000 years. About 200 years after Anasterian's birth, the song was altered to speak of the tragedies and losses of the quel'dorei, as opposed to the original kal'dorei it was written for. At some point, it was altered a third time, changing _quel'dorei_ to _sin'dorei_ (though the sin'dorei version is the only one that exists, so probably the one word is the only thing that was changed).


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sunwell falls.

It was hard to imagine, back in Silvermoon, the reason for his unease. The reason he felt itchy in his own skin, why the blood in his veins felt more like sludge. He hadn’t understood the exhaustion, the irritability. Why magic no longer left him feeling invigorated and alive. Why the very air tasted _wrong._

Standing there, slumped against a pillar, Rommath watched the vapors dissipate over the ruined Sunwell, and he understood. 

Someone was sobbing, loud, open-mouthed screams. It sounded so far away through the ringing in his ears. Theron disappeared from his field of vision, and Rommath thought he might be investigating the noise. It didn't stop, only went on in one horrible, mournful wail. His head hurt. 

Arthas Menethil had corrupted the Sunwell, had so deeply infused it with death magic that the only recourse to save their people had been to destroy it. The looks on their faces in the wake of Kael’s words had been… bleak. The reports had been troubling, but the reality… Oh, the reality had been so much worse. 

The Sunwell had sustained them for seven thousand years. They were tied to its essences, needed it like air. But to leave it fester would invite the decay befouling it into their very souls. They would become just as twisted and corrupted as the Scourge they sought to eliminate. What Kael has said was _wrong_ at the very core, but _right._ The right thing to do. As they had gazed at the angry vortex blazing over the font, they knew it was the only way. 

The Scourge on Quel'Danas had fought them bitterly. The Sunwell had empowered them as well, death magic making them stronger, deadlier; they would not stand aside and allow it to be destroyed. They had lost many more men to the undead, and their losses hung heavy in the air. 

Rommath sucked a deep breath into his lungs. It didn't feel like enough. It was stifling in the inner sanctum now, the remains of fire and burning arcane thick in the air. The howling winds of the vortex had died, the sickly green glow had started to fade. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a dark head of hair ﹣ Neeluu ﹣ as it fell, saw her guard’s mouth open in a scream he could not hear over the roaring in his ears. Saw a flash of white robes as someone reached out a hand to catch a fainting mage. Liadrin. Astalor.

His vision blurred, and his thoughts felt muddied in his brain. The Sunwell in its corruption had shocked him to the deepest reaches of his soul, sickened and pained him in ways nothing else ever had. Standing before it, his skin had erupted in gooseflesh and the blood in his veins ran cold. Reaching inside himself for the fire, directing it towards the Well, the guilt and the shame at his grim mission was the worst, the lowest he had ever felt. The fire crackled angrily, arcing away from the Well as though it had _known_ Rommath’s traitorous intent, but it obeyed him. Obeyed and shot forth, ate through the necromancy and the decay. The deep, ancient magicks that had swirled in those waters since time immemorial. Rommath felt the fire eat its way through his soul, the souls of everyone around him. The soul of Quel'Thalas itself. He had felt connected, for a moment, to every elf who had ever lived or would live, the magic that fed them all coiled tight, curling into itself as it was devoured piece by piece, infested so thoroughly by Scourge blight that nothing pure or untainted remained. 

Before him through the haze, he could just make out the trembling form of Kael. His prince’s eyes were wide with pain and fear. He stood tall amongst them as the Sunwell died, as it shuddered its last, fleeting breath. “Kael,” Rommath called, but no sound came from his lips. “Kael’thas…”

His knees turned to water, and then buckled completely, but the hard impact of the sanctum floor never came. Instead, rough hands grasped him, yanked him into a solid, warm body. “Hey now!” came a voice, hoarse from battle. “Easy there!” 

Rommath struggled ﹣ he was no damsel in need of rescue ﹣ but he was so very tired, and with each pulse of his heart, his head throbbed. He saw yellow hair and ranger’s gloves. “I’ve got you.” Rommath couldn’t speak. And then the world went black.

  
  
  


He came to feeling like he’d been hit by a wagon. Every muscle ached. It was dark wherever he was, the din of fighting far away. Rommath struggled to sit up, and then lay back down. It hurt. 

As his eyes adjusted, he found he was in a small room. A handful beds were its only furnishings, several of them filled with bodies. The fabric of the mattress was like sandpaper against his skin. He craned his neck, glimpsed pale hair in the bed beside him, and heaved a sigh of relief. Kael. Kael was safe.

A movement to his left caught his eye, and slowly, as if he were moving through water, Rommath turned his head. A door had opened, and a strip of morning light fell into the room. A shadow. 

“Tyrael,” the shadow called softly, and there was an answering grunt across the room. Rommath saw the shape of a Dawnblade get up from the floor, gold armor catching the faint light. “Tyrael,” the shadow said again, more firmly. The door closed, and in the darkened room the shadow became an elf. A priest maybe. “You need to sleep.”

“Your concern flatters me,” the Dawnblade croaked. “My place is with the Light of Dawn.”

“Even Captain Fireheart has left the prince’s side for sleep,” the maybe priest insisted. “You're of no use to anyone if you collapse.”

“I am not as selfish as Selin Fireheart,” grunted the Dawnblade. Rommath heard the pop of vertebrae as the man stretched. “Go away, Lana’thel. I’m fine.”

Lana’thel passed by the other beds, sparing a passing glance at those occupied. “There are other Dawnblades,” she said. “We can stay with her until she wakes. You need _sleep,_ and food.”

“Have you slept?” Tyrael Flamekissed snapped. “Have you once slept since Th﹣”

“Don’t.” The other Dawnblade’s voice was hard. “Do not mention his name.”

An uncomfortable silence fell. Rommath wished he were still unconscious. He did not want to hear of the problems of Dawnblades. Did not want to hear about more deaths.

“I’m sorry,” the spellblade murmured after a moment. “About him too.” 

A beat. And then, “I know what you think, Tyrael. It wasn’t my fault.”

“I know.”

“It _wasn’t my fault.”_ Her voice wavered.

“I know, Lana,” Flamekissed said again, more empathetic. 

“You can trust me.” The long shadow of her arm gestured toward the bed beside them. “I would give my life for her.”

“You didn’t for him.”

(The ringing had started in his ears again. Rommath squeezed his eyes shut. His head hurt.)

_SMACK!_

“You know _nothing_ of what happened that day!” Lana’thel hissed, dangerous and angry. “You weren’t there! You﹣weren’t﹣there! I did everything to save him!” If anyone in the room had been merely sleeping, only sleeping, they weren’t now.

Flamekissed’s voice was dull, emotionless. Tired. “We will discuss this later, Lana’thel,” he drawled, “at a more appropriate time. My place now is with the Light of Dawn. I will not leave until she wakes.” 

Lana’thel’s breathing was ragged and harsh. She struggled to contain herself. “Yes, sir,” she grit out. She gave him no bow before turning on her heel and stomping out. 

* * *

It was two days before he was strong enough to leave his bed, and a third before they were ready to journey back to Silvermoon. Destroying the Sunwell seemed to have sapped the life from the mages fighting to reclaim Quel’Danas. Many of them were pale, with dark bruises under their eyes. The priests ﹣ already flagging from the war ﹣ were no better. Only the Farstriders, far removed from arcane magic as they were, still stood, and even they were beginning to falter. 

Neeluu wanted to stay on Quel’Danas. “I have to stay with my Dawnblades,” she protested, tall and noble in the gloom, but Kael would hear none of it. 

“You will stay in the city,” he said impatiently. “It’s not safe to send you back to Dalaran.” 

Her brows furrowed, mouth turned down in a frown. “My _people_ ﹣” she began.

Kael whirled on her. “You have no people!” he snapped. “You are not queen! You are not even my wife! You have a title by the grace of my ancestor, and nothing more!” He scowled. “Do you want to end up dead like Thalorien? Missing like your father?”

Neeluu paled. Rommath thought his prince had gone too far, but it was not his place to say so. Not his place to comment on the words exchanged between intendeds. He averted his eyes, and for several tense moments, no one spoke. It was Kael who broke the silence.

“Listen to me and come back to Silvermoon.” His voice was softer, but the words were no less an order. Neeluu stared at him. Kael was _right,_ of course. Dawnstar Village, so close to the coast, had been annihilated, the people still alive living out of tents and the Dawnblade barracks. There was no place for the Light of Dawn, no matter how badly needed she may be. After a moment, Neeluu nodded mutely, and Kael relaxed. She gathered her skirts, the purple blotchy with stains ﹣ blood and ichor. With hands clenched tightly at her sides, she left, the click of the door thundering loudly in her wake. Kael sighed and slumped against the wall. Through the window behind him, Arthas Menethil’s path of frost melted slowly in the spring sun.

“How long until we leave?” He sounded small, like a child. Rommath’s eyes slid over to him. 

“Maybe an hour. Maybe less, if we can hold a portal.” The Sunwell’s destruction had left many of the mages weak. Casting a spell felt like wading through soup. Rommath had collapsed yesterday trying to open a portal home, and it scared him. He didn’t know when he would recover. _If_ he would ever recover. And if the mages, the Sanctum, lost power… If Quel’Thalas was without magic...

“Did I do the right thing?” his prince asked suddenly, cutting into his thoughts. “Was there no other way?”

“Yes,” Rommath said at once. “Yes, you did.” 

(Kael’s decision horrified him. Then and now. He could only imagine how Kael had felt. The strength it must have taken to come to that terrible decision. The guts it had taken to speak it out loud. But his prince was smart. Practical. Determined. If there had been another way, he would have found it.) 

A laugh passed through Kael’s lips, false and hollow. He ran a shaky hand through his hair. “Then why do I feel so awful?”

(Rommath had a thousand answers for him but none were likely to soothe. By collapsing the Sunwell, Kael had destroyed the very core of who they were. Rommath felt its loss intimately, like a missing limb. His heart ached without its magic in his veins.)

His prince turned to him then, face overshadowed with doubt. With fear. “What will happen to us, Rommath?” His eyes were huge and luminous, looking to him for answers. Reassurance. Comfort that Rommath could not give. His voice broke as he answered.

“I… I don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel the magical community would be hit first and hardest by the fall of the Sunwell. The shock of such a treasonous act, the actual pain of mana being ripped from them - probably a lot of mages lost consciousness or outright died just from that. Imagine if suddenly you couldn't breathe - the air only left your lungs, and you couldn't replace it. I think that's what happened with the elves. Some of them, the strongest, learned to breathe on their own, but all of them struggle. A constant battle to just live. This isn't a Kael fic, but I can see why that would have led to him becoming so desperate as to allying with the Burning Legion.
> 
> (Halduron caught Rommath as he fell. I feel the need to make that clear.)


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg, 1000 hits! Thank you, everyone! I'm glad you're enjoying the story!

_She was beautiful when she cried._

_Astalor knew he shouldn't think like that. Tears were not something to be romanticized, to be enamoured with. But by the Light, when had she begun to look like that? When had she become more than just Rommath's sister, become simply Auriel? He found his heart hammering so loudly he was sure she could hear it too._

_“I’m sorry,” Auriel gasped, swiping at her face furiously. The leather of her glove brought pink blooms of irritation around the sensitive skin of her eyes. (And they were beautiful too, green bleeding into them from the great crystals Rommath brought back from the Outland. Astalor had never seen such a shade.) “I’m sorry.”_

_He shook his head quickly. “N-no. Don’t be,” he stammered. “It’s… it’s alright.”_

_Strands of hair had escaped from her high tail. Some clung to her cheeks, but others stuck straight out, almost comically, in the heat of the day. Her brother would have never stood for them, would have been immaculate in his training as he was in all things, but Auriel was different. A little disarray, a little mess, had never bothered her._

_She heaved a huge, choked sigh, hiccuping softly, and Astalor’s heart went out to her. It couldn’t be easy, joining the Blood Knights. Taking life where she had once preserved it. He remembered back at Sunsail Anchorage, all those years ago, the woman who had kept stores of food and blankets and clothes for the less fortunate. The woman who slept on her feet in the aftermath of the Scourge, too busy to stop, to lay down. To take a moment for herself._

_“I can’t… I can’t save them, Astalor,” she sobbed. “I can’t save any of them. I tried… I did everything…”_

_The loss of Mindel Sunspeaker had hit them all hard. The last to join their order, Mindel had wielded the Light as efficiently as any priest, had been harsh and unforgiving in his slaughter of the Scourge. But it was not the Scourge who had taken him, but one of the Wretched ﹣ poor, unfortunate creatures who had given in to their magical addiction. The power Mindel had possessed was tremendous, and it had attracted the Wretched like moths to a flame._

_“I tried,” Auriel said again, and her tears would not stop falling. “I never slept… I bandaged their wounds and used all the reagents in the city… And I… I couldn’t save them…”_

_But he did not think she was speaking only of Mindel. He was anxious ﹣ he had never done well with such open displays of emotion, something for which Aethas loved to tease. He did not know what Auriel expected of him. He couldn’t bring the dead back. Not Mindel, nor the dead elves in the field outside, could not unburn all of the corpses Auriel had carried out of the inn in the first days of the Scourge. He wished Liadrin were here, or Rommath. Surely Rommath would know how to comfort her? (But Rommath was a world away, and in no position to help. Astalor could not leave Auriel like this. It would not be right.)_

_When he was a little boy, scared after a nightmare or in the dark, hurting after skinning his knee or burning himself with unpracticed magic, Astalor had often cried. He’d had no mother to rush to, no skirts to cry into, and his father had always been busy with important Convocation business. He wasn’t a particularly warm man, and though Astalor knew his father loved him, as a child he often found himself wishing to be held. To be close to his only parent, the man who had given him life. He thought he might feel better in his father’s arms, safe and loved._

_Could he hug Auriel? Were things such as impropriety even a concern anymore, with how badly Silvermoon had been disrupted by the Scourge? The nobility had been shattered, and the class system smashed beyond repair. Was it even 'wrong' anymore? Would she even allow him to touch her? She looked so like Rommath at times, and Rommath would never allow himself embraced._

_(But then, Rommath would never allow himself the vulnerability of his sister in this moment either.)_

_“I see them all the time,” Auriel whispered. “In my dreams. They ask me why I failed them. Why I let them die…” She swiped at her eyes again, wrapped her arms around herself, and the sight made Astalor’s chest tight. He felt… He didn’t know how he felt._

_He took a step forward, and placed a hand on her arm._

_“Auriel,” he began. But suddenly Auriel threw herself at him, cutting him off and burying her face in his robes. Astalor froze. He didn’t know what to do with his hands and his heart banged painfully against his ribcage. She was firm against him, a solid weight anchoring him to the present. To reality. He lived so much of his life now in question ﹣ what if Rommath didn’t return from the Outland? Had they done the right thing in destroying the Sunwell? Would his father have made this or that choice? Could they afford to outfit the new paladins, to feed the homeless, to rebuild the country? What if the Blood Knights failed, and despite all their best efforts the sin’dorei ceased to be? ﹣ that the tether of another person slammed full force, yanked him out of the world of hypotheticals and back down to the ground. It didn’t matter whether Rommath was here, or his father, or Kael. There were real, living people, people like Auriel, all around him. He owed it to them to be present, to be here. To try._

_But what if…_

_What if Arthas Menethil had never marched on Quel’Thalas? Where would he be? In Dalaran, with Aethas and their friends, rolling his eyes at Kael’s escapades and counting down the days until he returned to Silvermoon? Would he be at Aubade Hall, overseeing the Bloodsworn estates and avoiding the town, disillusioning himself from the harsh realities of the people there? Would he have ever met Liadrin, Solanar, and Auriel ﹣ would their lives mean anything to him at all?_

_Maybe. He recalled a long time ago, when Kael had brought them all to Sunsail Anchorage. When Rommath had introduced him to a steely, practical woman in journeyman robes. A woman who smiled at him, a smile that looked so out of place on a face so like her brother’s. His skin had tingled curiously when she touched him, and the look in her eyes was kind. Not like Rommath’s eyes, hard and guarded, but the soft, clear blue of a summer's day. She had been pretty, he’d thought in an offhand way, but he’d never really expected to see her again._

_Never expected her to be standing here with him, hiccuping softly, wisps of hair escaping their tie and tickling under his chin. His skin prickled, not uncomfortably, where she was pressed to him, and he wondered vaguely, in the back of his mind, if it was the Light he felt emanating from her. It was the same sort of feeling he got from Liadrin._

_It steadied him, a little. He still didn’t know what to do with his hands, and he wasn’t sure if he could touch her. He patted her back awkwardly, and hoped it was enough._

_“It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s okay to feel like this.” They were words he told himself every day, as he sat with Lor’themar and Halduron, parsing through Rommath’s duties; as he poured over spreadsheets and field reports with Liadrin and Solanar. As he lay awake at night, the anxiety clawing at his heart. His pulse roared in his ears. “Try something with me,” he said, unsure if she was listening. “Breathe. Just...” He took a deep breath, trying to ground himself once more against the wave of uncertainty threatening to pull him under. “...and release.” He exhaled, eyes closed, and breathed in again. And again._

_After a moment, Auriel let him go, and for some time there was no sound but for their steady breaths, in and out. When he opened his eyes, she was no longer crying, no longer curling into herself. She looked so young standing there ﹣ the Scourge had aged them all so much that it was hard to remember that, that they were all still so young. She smiled at him, beautiful in the afternoon light, and Astalor’s stomach flipped._

_“Thank you,” she said softly. “I’m sorry. Sometimes… sometimes the weight of what has happened ﹣ to Quel’Thalas, to all of us…”_

_Astalor nodded. “I understand.” And, “That’s why we joined the order, isn’t it?” To right the wrongs that had been committed against them. To regain control over their lives._

_Auriel looked at him, an expression he couldn’t quite read on her face. “You didn’t give up magic,” she said. It was not an accusation, nor a question, but Astalor answered it anyway._

_“I’m afraid I would be useless in armor,” he admitted. “I’ve never had much affinity for the Light.” It wasn’t the pull of mana he felt, the deep-seated addiction they all shared. He was a fire mage but he had not been blessed as Rommath and Kael were. Magic was all he had ever really excelled at. It was the only thing he had ever felt accomplished in. Without his magic, he was useless._

_“I don’t believe that.” Auriel’s voice cut through his thoughts. “You have Light inside.”_

  
  


_“You have Light inside,”_ she’d told him. Astalor remembered the feeling of surprise at her words, the way his heart had sped up. She hadn’t been speaking of the Light as he’d thought it, the healing and warmth burning within the priesthood, but of a different Light. Strength, and determination. Her words had lifted him, in that moment. They always had. 

“I have Light inside,” he murmured, fingering the ring about his neck. It was small and delicate as Auriel had never been, barely large enough to fit his pinky. He had teased her sometimes for her small hands, the tiny ring. Seeing her wear it, a physical manifestation of their bond, had made his heart swell. Light, he missed her. 

Taking in a deep breath, Astalor flung the covers back. Swung his legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold in the chill morning air but he was warm with her memory. He padded to the washroom and splashed his face, combed his hair. He drank coffee in his cozy kitchen, eyes cast towards the window and the herbs sitting on the sill. He would work in the garden today ﹣ Neeluu would be pleased with the medicines his herbs would make, and many of the plants needed harvesting. Auriel had taught him of medicinal plants, his green thumb surpassing even her own. 

And later, he thought, he would send a note to Rommath. He worried for his friend. Rommath hadn’t been the same since Auriel had died. Her death on top of Kael’s had shattered him, and Astalor didn’t know what to do or what to say to make it better. Rommath had Light in him too, but he only saw the darkness. 

Opening his front door, he reached up a hand to brush his fingers against the sigil of Light hanging above his head. It had become habit over the years, the movement ingrained in him after a decade watching priests and paladins and Auriel do the same. “Good morning, love,” he murmured, and stepped out into the sunlight.

* * *

Rommath frowned. He wasn’t sure he’d heard right. 

“Pardon?”

(He almost said _what the actual fuck,_ but he caught himself in time.)

“The Ranger General and Ambassador Tatai were arrested early this morning,” his apprentice repeated. “Regent Lord Theron went personally to the dungeons to release them.”

Rommath groaned. What had Brightwing done? Had he actually been right about the troll? (And Rommath knew he didn’t want to live in a world where Halduron Brightwing was right.)

“Why?” he asked through gritted teeth. His apprentice flicked through her notes, one ear twitching. 

“It seems they’d gotten into an argument,” she reported, “at Gallaran’s.” 

Of fucking course. Brightwing _would_ get himself arrested for a tavern brawl.

“Ambassador Tatai seems to have made a comment that the Ranger General disproved of.” His apprentice frowned. “So the Ranger General ﹣” she stopped here to quote from her report, “‘got in his face and shouted.’ I believe the ambassador hit first, after the Ranger General seized his arm.”

(Some days Rommath was delivered news that made him want to bash his head into his desk for ten straight minutes. Today was one of those days.)

“Who else knows of this?” It would _not_ do for Orgrimmar to find out Halduron had assaulted one of their ambassadors. The trolls and the orcs were a package deal, one they could not afford to lose.

“Aside from the barkeep who called the authorities,” his apprentice began, “just the arresting guards and the Regent Lord. Gallaran’s was quite empty at that hour.” She paused. “Most likely the Lady Liadrin, and Ranger Lord Bloodblade know as well.”

Kelantir Bloodblade was Halduron’s second in command. A practical woman, Rommath had had little dealing with her outside of rumors and her few appearances in the city. Like Halduron, Bloodblade preferred to stick to the forests.

“We can add the orcish ambassador to that list,” he muttered. He was sure the orc woman and the troll told each other everything. He sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to clean this up too.”

His apprentice hummed. “I believe the Ranger General has already received a thorough tongue lashing from the Regent Lord,” she told him. “He was quite angry.”

(Rommath had seen Lor’themar “angry.” He doubted it had had any effect on the ranger.)

She placed a stack of parchment on his desk, and another to one side. “Shall I push back your meeting with the warlocks?” she asked. A subset of the Magisters’ Sanctum, the warlocks had first sprung up in Outland among Kael’s troops, and for a time had been confined there, gaining momentum after the invasion of the Burning Legion. Rommath didn’t like warlocks, didn’t like their dealings with demons, but he had to admit there was a small, perverse satisfaction in watching one of the horrible creatures bound to the will of a sin’dorei. He allowed the Warlocks’ Sanctum to exist, with strict regulations. 

“No,” he huffed. “Brightwing unfortunately cannot get me out of that grim assignment.” He waved his hand irritably at one of the parchment stacks. “Take this yourself, whatever it is. I won’t have time for it if I’m to run damage control.”

His apprentice nodded and the parchment disappeared. “I don’t suppose you’ll allow me to accompany you to Murder Row?” she asked lightly. Rommath could’ve burned something ﹣ he didn’t have time to indulge a child’s fascinations today.

“No,” he snapped. In his opinion, his apprentice had a frankly unhealthy obsession with the Warlocks’ Sanctum. He had allowed them to claim one of the unused guild halls on Murder Row, away from polite society, and he allowed Erindae the privilege to assess their restrictions and regulations. But warlocks were dangerous, he maintained, their magic not conductive to her studies or proper arcanery. There was no need to drag her to the city slums for inspection and paperwork. 

If she had feelings on his rejection, she kept them to herself. “I believe the Ranger General is to be found at the stables,” she offered instead.

“Of course he is.” With a sigh, Rommath stood.

* * *

The stables were busy when Rommath arrived. Stablehands ran about, fetching and tacking hawkstriders, running glossing cloths over their plumage and sweeping up stray feathers. Rommath passed a unicorn, its groom carefully smoothing a saddle blanket along its back. Unicorns were rare and precious ﹣ few had survived the Scourge. Magical creatures from the time of the Well of Eternity, unicorns had long been considered symbols of luck and prestige. Nallorath had owned a unicorn, before…

He shook his head to clear it. That was a long time ago.

He didn’t have far to look for Halduron. The screeching of the hawkstriders couldn’t cover the sounds of Kelantir Bloodblade, yelling at the ranger for all she was worth.

“﹣trying to start a war, Halduron? What were you thinking?” She stood at the front of a stall, holding the blue feathered head of a hawkstrider and glaring past it, downwards.

“I wasn’t _thinking_ anything, Kel,” Halduron grumbled. He was bent over, examining his bird’s feet and leaning heavily against the animal’s side. “I was drunk.” 

Bloodblade threw up her hands. “You were drunk? _You were drunk?!_ Hal! You know you can’t make trouble for that troll! He’s an _ambassador!”_ Her face was red ﹣ she must have been yelling for quite some time.

“He’s a fucking asshole, is what he is,” Halduron grumbled. “Easy, Dal.” He leaned his head against the bird’s wing as it chittered irritably. It seemed to be glaring, but at whom Rommath couldn’t say. 

(He wasn’t the biggest fan of hawkstriders, truth be told. As a child they had frightened him immensely. He wasn’t afraid anymore, but they did make him uneasy, with their cruel beaks and dangerous talons. Many were unpredictable, he’d found, and angry.)

Bloodblade looked as though she were about to explode. “It doesn’t matter if he’s an asshole! You can’t just go up to him and strike him!”

Halduron set the bird’s foot down. “I was minding my own business,” he muttered. “And he hit me first.” He straightened, wincing, and grabbed his head. 

“I don’t think that matters,” Rommath said calmly, stepping into view. Bloodblade startled, bowed her head hastily. Halduron didn’t react, riding out the throbbing headache that came with standing up too fast. He was clearly hungover, and very tired.

“Grand Magister,” Bloodblade said hastily, giving a little bow.

“If you’ve come here to yell, there’s a line,” Halduron deadpanned. He ducked under the bird’s outstretched neck and repeated his examination of the other foot. Absently, he picked a bit of dirt from under one of the beast’s nails.

And normally, Rommath would have yelled. He was certainly not shy about arguing with Halduron, never had been. But something about the scene, Halduron hiding behind the hawkstrider as Bloodblade shouted herself hoarse, gave him pause. Bloodblade would continue her screaming long after he had gone, and his apprentice said Lor’themar had yelled as well. Yelling didn’t seem to work on people like Halduron. 

“I should hope you’re not going to crawl back to bed after this,” he said instead. 

“I wasn’t,” Halduron replied dully. “Kel would drag me out if I tried.”

Rommath suppressed a smirk. “As she should. You have duties to attend to.”

Halduron said nothing, merely dropped his bird’s foot and stood. He folded his arms over the hawkstrider’s back, rested his head on them. The bird chirruped fondly, reaching around and nuzzling the ranger’s head with its curved beak. He looked exhausted.

“Show me what it even is you _do_ here,” Rommath demanded. “I’m convinced you’ll sulk all day in this stall if I don’t accompany you.”

Bloodblade looked smug. “I’ll get you a hawkstrider,” she offered. 

Halduron sighed. “Great,” he deadpanned. “An afternoon with Rommath. The joy.”

“You deserve it,” Bloodblade said over her shoulder. “You _will_ sulk all day.”

The ranger buried his face in his bird’s feathers and groaned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was very tempted to make this entire chapter from Astalor's POV, with memories of Auriel and his thoughts on Rommath and Neeluu interwoven. I've written out the entirety of his and Auriel's love story (thank you, insomnia), but I don't know if I'll post it. This flashback is from the day Astalor realized he had feelings for her.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rommath spends the morning with Halduron, and gets a surprise visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy, we're in the home stretch, kids. I can tell because it's harder to write each chapter lol. Thanks for sticking with me from daily updates sliding into weekly updates. I want to say there's only a handful of chapters left.

A Halduron around animals was not a Halduron Rommath was used to. Astride his hawkstrider, Halduron was patient, attentive, secure. He made his rounds quietly, perhaps the only outward sign that he was not alright, but to his subordinates, the Farstriders whose posts he passed, he was cordial, friendly. He cracked jokes with a trio passing through the city gates and observed a shift change by Thuron’s Livery. The ranger leaving his post called him Hal, and the two chatted for several minutes. Rommath held back, sitting atop his hawkstrider uneasily. He had much to do today, and none of it had anything to do with Halduron, but for reasons he didn’t quite understand, he felt he needed to patrol with Halduron today. Felt Halduron needed a friend.

It didn’t matter that Halduron and Rommath weren’t friends, he didn’t think. (They _weren’t_ friends. Halduron was not Astalor, and yet…

He would have dropped everything to accompany Astalor around the isle, if Astalor had looked as Halduron had. _Were_ they friends? 

Preposterous.)

“Get some sleep, Hal,” said the ranger by way of goodbye, setting off for the city gates and no doubt his own bed. “You look like you need it.” 

Halduron said nothing, merely waved and watched the ranger go. And without a word to Rommath, he clicked his tongue to his bird and the two of them trotted off in the opposite direction. 

They passed a wagon headed for Farstrider Enclave, surrounded by mounted rangers and trailed by recruits on foot. On an ordinary day, Rommath thought the Ranger General would have joined them, at least as far as Fairbreeze, but he didn’t. Halduron turned away from the clamor of recruits, his hawkstrider’s feet making no noise as he left the path and padded along the grass. Rommath didn’t know if this was part of Halduron’s normal routine, if he should say anything. His hawkstrider snapped at a passing bug, following in Halduron’s wake, and it wasn’t until they were close to Stillwhisper Pond that the bird stopped, chittering quietly. Halduron sat firm in the saddle, no longer holding the reins, staring out over the water. In the distance, Rommath could just make out the forms of elves mulling about Saltheril’s Haven. They seemed to be setting up for one of the man’s infamous parties.

“Seems there’s going to be an event tonight,” Rommath said, for no other reason than to make conversation. 

“Mm.” Halduron wasn’t looking at the elves, at the Haven. He seemed very far away. 

“You think you’ll go?” 

“Probably.” (And it would be odd, wouldn’t it, for Halduron to miss one of Saltheril’s parties. Rommath supposed he attended them all when he was in the city.)

 _Don’t get yourself arrested again,_ he wanted to say, but he didn’t. He thought that would be in poor taste. “Are they any good?” he asked instead. He had never been one for parties, no matter how many Kael had dragged him to.

The ranger brushed a bit of hair off his face, letting it slide between his fingers absentmindedly. “Sometimes.” His eyes were cloudy, and cold. “Mostly it’s just a lot of people who drink too much and think what they say means anything.” 

Rommath’s eyebrows shot up. He hadn’t expected such a bald assessment of what amounted to what Halduron himself had done every night for the past ten years. He wondered if Halduron understood what he had said. (But then, if he were honest, Halduron had always been a lot smarter than Rommath had ever given him credit for.) 

The ranger leaned against his hawkstrider’s neck, feathers brushing his cheek lightly. He closed his eyes and sighed. “It’s not all that great usually,” he mumbled. “Fucking around like nothing bad can touch you. Like nothing bad ever happened. It just makes it hurt less.”

Rommath blinked. “Halduron…”

“That troll,” Halduron started, his voice dull, emotionless. “Wouldn’t shut up. Kept telling me how _good_ we’ve done for ourselves, how _great_ it is that Silvermoon is ‘back to normal.’” And here Rommath felt a surge of anger, that anyone would consider Silvermoon such a thing. Silvermoon ﹣ the sin’dorei ﹣ would never be _normal_ again. (He understood, beneath the fury, that Ambassador Tatai was trying to _compliment_ them but, like Halduron himself, he seemed not to have thought before he spoke.) “Asked if I had a mate, if I had kids. If any of them were rangers like me.” 

And there it was. The words no one dared speak to Halduron, asked by an inebriated troll in the early hours of the morning. _“So the Ranger General… ‘got in his face and shouted.’”_ Rommath could picture it as clearly as if he’d been there. Halduron would have grabbed the troll, face red from drink, spewing obscenities; and in his drunken haze the troll would have taken the ranger’s hand on him as a sign of aggression, would have lashed out and struck Halduron for his transgression. And Halduron, already upset, would have fought back. It was a disaster of a scenario, a diplomatic emergency, but Rommath _understood it._ He understood Tatai, wanting to reach out to a man he must know didn’t trust him, asking questions that never should have elicited such response. Had probably spoken of his own family as well, if he had one. And he understood Halduron’s reaction because…

Well. Didn’t everyone avoid the subject of Kael with him? Weren’t they the same in that regard?

(No. Not quite the same. No one would think Kael meant to Rommath what Halduron’s wife meant to him, but their feelings, their situations were similar nonetheless.)

“He just… I couldn’t help it,” Halduron sighed. “I know I fucked up, Rommath. I should have just left.”

“Yes,” Rommath murmured, “you should have.” There was no anger in his voice; he couldn’t fault the ranger for his actions. He would have done the same, in Halduron’s position. (With possibly more… explosive results.) He nudged his hawkstrider closer and reached out a hand. He hesitated. He couldn’t ever remember touching Halduron Brightwing, and had in fact always been quite adamant the ranger stay well away from his space. He wasn’t good at offering comfort, was awkward around physical affection. Rommath was nothing like Lor’themar and Halduron, men who leaned against each other, slung their arms around each other’s shoulders ﹣ casually, like it said nothing at all. They had been raised in a world where touch, comfort, was freely given and happily welcomed. A world Rommath knew not at all. 

He laid his hand on Halduron’s arm. Hoped the man understood. “It’s alright,” he said gently. “I understand.” 

Under the hawkstriders’ fierce orange gaze, Halduron lifted his head. He didn’t look at Rommath, and he didn’t shrug off the hand. His hawkstrider twisted its neck to nudge at him, and the ranger patted its beak softly. “Yeah,” he mused. “I knew you would.”

* * *

Rommath didn’t look up from his desk at the knock on the door, frowning into the paperwork he should’ve been doing. His mind was scattered, the well-oiled gears of his brain squealing in protest as he tried to focus. His apprentice had asked him to look over a new theorem she wanted to use with her students (and Rommath was sure, even at first glance, it was not something the likes of Maltrake and Peoreth would grasp easily), and Esara Verrinde’s latest report had finally arrived. He had appointed the mage as the then-newly created Seeker of Wisdom when he’d returned from the Outland nearly eight years prior, a huge relief to them both. He had been unable to research answers for the problem of the elves’ magical addiction and Verrinde had felt frustrated and limited by the lack of answers in Quel’Thalas. Rommath had not dissolved the office after the Sunwell’s restoration (though it had crossed his mind), and Verrinde wrote to him on a monthly basis with a journal so detailed it made the blood rush in his veins. She had observed Revantusk troll rituals in the Hinterlands and Gurubashi blood rites in Stranglethorn, scoured dusty tomes in the Stormwind libraries and participated in kaldorei moon ceremonies. Gifted in language, Verrinde had been the one to send him the Orcish primer and put to paper the short history Rommath had read all those months ago; and several times she had included fabulous drawings of goblin machines, gnomish inventions, and once even a piece showing the subtleties of draenei craftsmanship. Magically-related or no, Verrinde sent him all she found, and Rommath carefully catalogued it all. Presently she was across the sea in Feralas, in a place called Dire Maul. Rommath had heard rumors of Dire Maul, of the ogre-mages who inhabited it and the strange, almost elvish magicks they worked. He was extremely interested in Verrinde’s report, but every time he pulled it close, his mind would wander back to his morning with Halduron, to the sad, faraway look in his eyes, and Rommath would find he couldn’t concentrate.

“Afternoon, Rommath.”

His head snapped up. Few people used his first name anymore. He looked over towards his visitor and, if Rommath had been anyone else, his jaw might have dropped. Aethas Sunreaver was standing in his office.

“Afternoon,” he said, with the slightest hesitation. Why was Aethas in his office? He hadn’t even known Aethas was in the city.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.” His former friend was calm, his voice even, but there was the slightest bit of anxiety in the way he held himself. The way he stood just by the door, as if he were some nameless acolyte afraid of Rommath’s legendary temper.

Rommath pushed Verrinde’s report aside. He would get to it eventually. “Not at all.” He paused, suddenly awkward. If it were anyone else, they would be expected to stand before his desk and speak. There were no chairs in his office, and the lack of that comfort, of conversing with him like an equal, did much to remind his visitors who was in charge. 

But he knew Aethas. This wasn’t some student come to bother him or someone under his employ. If it were Liadrin or Astalor, Rommath would direct them to the stiff divan, and he himself would take the winged armchair opposite. The only other place besides his desk chair to sit, uncomfortable and rarely used.

But this was _Aethas._ He no longer had the relationship with the man that he had with Liadrin or Astalor. They were not close, had not been close in quite some time. Aside from the revelation at his sister’s grave nearly a year ago, Rommath had few opportunities to even speak to the man. Aethas more often than not avoided him.

(It was entirely understandable, Rommath thought, given the way Rommath had treated him, and Aethas’s feelings for him.)

“What brings you here?” he stalled. 

To his credit, Aethas kept his composure. It was something not many could do, standing before the Grand Magister. “I’ve just returned from Dalaran,” he said coolly, “and I thought I’d stop by.”

“Ah.” (But _why?_ In all his time as Grand Magister, Aethas Sunreaver had never once just _stopped by.)_ “Welcome back then.”

“Thank you.” The mage’s eyes flicked over to the divan. “May I sit?”

A bold question, and one Rommath would have ignored from someone else. He simultaneously felt his stomach unclench and knot all over again. “Of course. I’ll join you.” 

It took longer than it should have for him to walk across the room, to sit on the couch. Being so close to Aethas again after the hundreds of years felt alien and anathema.

“How is Dalaran these days?” he asked, more to fill the chasm between them than because he especially cared. After what the city had done to him, to Kael, he really didn’t care what happened there anymore.

Aethas shrugged. “More or less the same,” he hummed, “minus the elves.”

(Kael had forbidden the mages to study in the city in the aftermath of the Scourge, his anger at Quel’Thalas’s abandonment by the humans cutting deep. It was not a ruling Rommath felt necessarily pressed to reverse, though a handful ﹣ like Aethas ﹣ were permitted to continue.)

Rommath nodded. “And Jaina?” (He cursed himself. He cared little and less for Jaina Proudmoore but the undeniable fact remained that she had once been his friend.)

“Jaina’s fine,” Aethas replied. “She devotes herself to her work and nothing more.”

“She always was talented.”

“Mm.” Aethas frowned after a moment, as though he wasn’t sure he should speak his next words. “Rommath,” he began slowly, “I have a favor to ask.”

(And Rommath should be annoyed. Should be outraged that Aethas, a man to whom he barely spoke, had shown up out of the blue and had the audacity to ask him for a favor. But he wasn’t.)

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Aethas’s hair gleamed a brilliant red in the light falling from the window, like the feathers of the strange orange dragonhawks of northern Quel’Thalas. The only dragonhawks of Quel’Thalas, now. “You know I often consult with the Kirin Tor,” he said. “Jaina thinks very highly of me.”

He nodded. After he had left Dalaran, Astalor would write him that Aethas often joined them in their group, that he and Jaina got along well. Jaina was fascinated with Aethas’s mastery of the arcane, and Aethas had ﹣ in Astalor’s words ﹣ enjoyed the friendship of someone who did not consider him a bridge to Kael. 

“She’s offered me a position on the Council of Six,” Aethas said abruptly. “A full position, with housing and salary.” He cleared his throat nervously. “If I move to Dalaran, that is.”

Oh. So that’s what he wanted. 

Astalor had been the one to persuade Kael to allow Aethas to finish his studies in the city of mages. He had pointed out that it would be useful to have a trustworthy contact should they need one, should they wish to rebuild relations. Rommath had never given the idea much thought ﹣ he had been in agreement with Kael that humans, all humans, were not worth associating with, and his feelings on Dalaran had soured after the Council of Six imprisoned him and Kael for six long, grueling months during their quest to break the sin’dorei’s magical addiction. He had allowed Neeluu to finish her studies, had allowed Aethas all these years as a consult for the Kirin Tor, but the work had always been conditional. Both of them were expected to return to Silvermoon in the end, to leave Dalaran behind. 

His first instinct was to say no. Why should the Lightdamned Council of Six be graced with the presence of a sin’dorei, when ten years ago they had seen no benefit to helping them or saving their race? Why should they sink their claws into Aethas, when they had plenty of elves, elves who had forsaken Quel’Thalas, to choose from? Aethas Sunreaver was sin’dorei, he and his brilliant mind belonged in Silvermoon, not Dalaran. Silvermoon needed mages like him working in the Magisterium, working for the benefit of all Quel’Thalas. 

“I see.” Rommath kept his face blank. “And this is something you are considering?”

Aethas looked at him then, with calm green eyes and thin, lined mouth. “This is something I am asking,” he corrected quietly. 

No. Absolutely not.

“And this… position, is contingent upon your relocation?”

“Yes.” 

Dalaran could fall from the sky and burn for all Rommath cared. If he could get away with it without causing an international incident, he’d burn it himself. 

“Why the sudden interest?” he said instead. “I was under the impression your consultation work was enough for them.”

Aethas held his gaze. “It was,” he admitted, “but I wasn’t happy. Going to and from the city, never seeing my colleagues and having to renew my working papers every year… It’s exhausting, Rommath.”

Rommath’s eyes narrowed. “So you would forsake Silvermoon because you are _tired?”_

“No.” The other man’s reply was swift, biting into Rommath’s words with its force. “I will always be loyal to Silvermoon.”

“Then why﹣”

“You left Dalaran to forget someone,” Aethas cut in. “And I would be doing the same.”

Rommath stared. Oh. _Oh._ (And he almost stumbled over the thought that Aethas had been able to read him so easily, so long ago.) It wasn’t Silvermoon Aethas was asking to leave. It was him. 

And it made sense, didn’t it? Whether they spoke or not, Aethas still reported to him as a member of the Magisterium. His consult work was approved through Erindae, but there was always the constant reminder that Erindae worked for Rommath. That all mages worked for Rommath. There was the ever present chance of running into each other in the Spire, at Astalor’s. Rommath’s name was on every declaration, every ordinance in the city, and no matter where one went, if they worked magic, he would come up soon enough. 

His stomach bottomed out. Even after the realization of Aethas’s feelings, Rommath had never truly _thought_ about them. Had never taken the time to imagine how _alike_ he and Aethas were, in love with men who would never want them. Had never understood Aethas at all.

(And not for the first time, he wondered who else he had hurt in his blinding adoration of Kael. Who else had been eclipsed by his sun the prince.)

He had no words for Aethas. It felt like the man had smacked him with all the wrongs Rommath had done to him.

It was Aethas who spoke first. “I want you to know,” he said quietly, “that I bear you no grudge or ill will. I do not hate you, Rommath.” He dropped his gaze. “I simply… will not grow if I do not move on. And I believe Jaina’s offer will allow me to do that.”

He nodded dumbly. Of course. A city with no elves, no Grand Magister looming overhead. It did make sense, in a way.

(Any other elf and he would have said no. Despite the hypocrite it made him to be, he did not believe in running away. And yet… maybe Aethas wasn’t running so much as he was trying to start over?)

“I will consider it,” Rommath said finally. “Allow me some time to mull it over.”

(He would say yes, he knew. He owed Aethas that much. The chance to get out of Kael’s ever present shadow, to become his own man, to mend his broken heart. He owed him that.) 

And Aethas looked pleased. He clearly hadn’t dared hope Rommath would grant him his request immediately ﹣ he had never done that. But perhaps he had thought Rommath would not grant him anything at all (and that certainly would not be out of character, Rommath thought). At any rate, he brushed a strand of fiery hair from his face and smiled, a soft smile that made Rommath’s chest tight. “Thank you,” he said, emotion thick in his voice. 

(Yes, Rommath would definitely let him go.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Halduron. I promise I have something good for you. Not in this fic but... eventually, y'know?
> 
> Aethas, my baby. Aethas does get a good ending, I promise. But right now he's just serving as yet another person Rommath doesn't want to emulate, and it's making Rommath think.


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kael has a special mission for Rommath, and Rommath learns exactly what he's missed while he was away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Slight time skip from the previous past chapter, because if I detailed everything Rommath and Kael did before Outland, we'd be here for AGES. Here's the Cliff's Notes:
> 
> Kael tentatively decided to ask the human kingdoms for help again. Dalaran gave no fucks and threw him and Rommath and the Sunfury in a dungeon. Kael said FUCK HUMANS after that. Kael and Rommath go on an epic adventure with Vashj (who busts them out of the dungeon) and Illidan and introduce them to the concept of siphoning, specifically siphoning mana. At some point they arrive in Netherstorm, and begin a hostile takeover of Tempest Keep and the construction of manaforges.

_ “What the fuck do you mean, you’re leaving? Where are you going?!” _

_ Kael had looked so tired. There were dark circles under his eyes and his hair was limp. But fire burned in his eyes, pale blue fire that stirred something deep in Rommath’s gut.  _

_ “I’m going to find the solution.” _

Leave it to Kael to decide “the solution” wasn’t even on the fucking planet.

But  _ oh. _ As Rommath walked through the dusty purple landscape, he felt  _ alive. _ Mana thrummed in his veins in ways he had never felt, not even with the Sunwell. He was drunk on it, every cell in his body intoxicated and all his nerves on fire. He thought he would sell his soul if it meant feeling like this until his dying breath. 

It made it difficult to think sometimes. When they’d first arrived, Rommath found himself so easily distracted. Flicking sparks from his fingers just because he could, breathing deeply and exhaling  _ fire _ like the cheap parlor mages of his youth. He wasn’t the only one. Telonicus often daydreamed during his waking hours, his quill stilled over half-finished designs and barely legible notes. Capernian’s alchemy suffered in the Netherstorm’s bare soils but her astromancy flourished, and more than once she found herself trailing off, staring at the stars in wonder as the mana-touched winds swirled around them. 

(They’d left their spouses behind, none the wiser, and shared one room. Before, Rommath would have commented ﹣ the _impropriety_ of it! ﹣ but by the time his body had finally calmed from the constant, throbbing influxes of mana, he found he no longer cared. It was their choice to make, and none of his business anyway.)

For the first time in his life, he felt completely, irrevocably  _ unhinged. _ He felt on top of the world ﹣ both worlds, all the worlds. He felt he could do anything. 

“Rommath.” Kael’s words came from far away. “Rommath, are you in there?”

He started. “What?” And his prince chuckled.

“I know,” Kael said sympathetically. “It takes all my will to focus sometimes too.”

They were in Kael’s quarters, in some shady inn. At least, Rommath thought it was shady. It was run by  _ goblins. _ The little green freaks really were everywhere, weren’t they? It wouldn’t be long before they could leave, before Telonicus had restored Tempest Keep. Made it habitable. Built of beautiful pale pink crystal, the goblins said that it used to be a draenei fortress, before the orcs left. Before the Dark Portal opened. It hadn’t been used in some time, and Kael was determined to make it his offworld palace. 

“Sorry,” Rommath murmured sheepishly. “What’s going on?”

And Kael resumed the reading of his latest missive from Illidan Stormrage ﹣  _ Illidan Stormrage! _ Rommath had been deeply distrustful of the night elf in the beginning. He knew all the stories, all the rumors. But Illidan had proved a better ally than the humans. Proved to care more about their fate. He too knew the pain of suffering, of losing something so fundamentally essential to being. It was what had spurned his decisions in the first place, he’d told them. The Burning Legion had taken everything from him, he’d told them, from the night elves. 

Well. Rommath didn’t know much about the Burning Legion. But he felt the conviction, the raw power in Illidan’s words. Illidan Stormrage would not turn on them, would not throw them in the dungeons like common criminals. Illidan would help them,  _ was _ helping them. 

“The first manaforge should be up and running soon,” Rommath commented mildly, as Kael folded the letter and tucked it carefully into his sleeve. “That friend of Telonicus’s was a good find.”

Many of the people Kael had chosen to follow him to the Outland were close friends or friends of friends. It made sense, Rommath thought. These were known people, trustworthy people. The common folk made up the raw power, of course, but many of the greatest minds were already familiar. Telonicus had requested an old school friend join them upon the discovery of the Netherstorm’s rich, unfiltered mana supply. This friend would help him in the designing and implementation of the forge that would condense the pure mana into easily portable crystals which would then be shipped back to Quel’Thalas. Illidan Stormrage had taught them how to siphon the mana from the crystals, to pry it from its fragile shell and consume its essence, and soon the elves of Quel’Thalas would do the same. It wasn’t a permanent solution, but it was a score better than the alternative, the wasting sickness that had befallen some of their brethren. 

(Rommath shuddered at the thought. The need for mana, the addiction, was so strong that some elves were unable to maintain any semblance of their former lives. They shook with fever, their skin became cold and clammy and pallid. Some lost their minds. Rommath didn’t want it to spread, wanted to ship these crystals home as soon as possible.)

“Indeed. Without Panthaleon, I believe the manaforge would exist but on paper,” Kael hummed. “It was he who designed the transport cylinders, wasn’t it?”

Rommath nodded. “It was,” he affirmed. “Very clever.” 

They quieted as the door opened and a goblin entered ﹣ a serving girl, probably. She left a covered tray on the table and curtsied, and on her way out tried (and failed) to joke with one of the Sunfury guards posted at the door. 

( _ Sunfury. _ What an appropriate name for their expedition.)

Kael made no move to inspect the food but Rommath’s stomach had been protesting for some time and he reached over, pulled the lid off. The goblins, being from Azeroth originally, did import some recognizable foods, much to the chagrin of the strange energy beings known as the ethereals. There was a fruit salad (though sadly none that Rommath recognized readily) and something that looked like venison but which Rommath knew from experience did not quite have the same taste. Bread made from a thicker, coarser grain than he was used to had been lay to one side, and the girl had included an entire pitcher of clear liquid that Rommath had been told was water but which sparkled too brightly and tasted faintly of mana and something bittersweet he couldn’t name. Without waiting for permission, he picked a fruit from the bowl ﹣ it seemed to be a strawberry, and upon biting into it, Rommath was pleasantly surprised to find he’d been right. One too many times he’d assumed he was eating imported food, or been surprised to learn that what looked familiar was not at all. (He still couldn’t stomach skethyll berries, which looked like manaberries and had none of their pure, crisp bite.)

“I’ve been thinking, Rommath,” came Kael’s voice, and Rommath hummed to show he was listening but did not turn around. The not-venison was not unpleasant, and was quite good with the strange bread. (One of the only uses he’d found for the bread, to be honest. He did not care for it.) “Who can I trust to deliver the crystals safely to Silvermoon? I believe this person should stay, and teach the city how to drain the mana from them.”

“Sanguinar,” Rommath put forth, after a moment of deliberation. “He would be able to keep the shipment from bandits on the way to Shattrath, and commands enough respect from…  _ Lor’themar _ to implement their use.” Their benefactor had come with enough gold to buy an army, or to buy out those who would seek to harm them. Travel to and from the Outland was highly restricted ﹣ the energies surrounding the shattered planet were extremely unstable, and very few mages had the necessary command over the arcane to open a portal. Even Rommath was unable to do it, a fact that frustrated him to no end. 

(Lor’themar Theron frustrated him too. Kael had chosen dear cousin Lor to lead Silvermoon in his absence ﹣ as if a ranger had the necessarily diplomacy to corral what was left of the aristocracy and the skill to wrangle largescale problems. But his prince had been cagey about it when Rommath had asked, saying only, “Rommath, he is my cousin,” as if that explained everything.)

Kael frowned. “I fear he would become distracted, should he return home,” he confided. “You know he still hopes for news of his daughter.”

“I don’t think he would abandon us should she appear,” Rommath disagreed, but Kael did not look convinced. “Alright. Not Sanguinar then.” He took a bite of his not-venison sandwich. It had a rich and earthy taste, with an undercurrent of sweetgrass and some strange, Outlandian spice. He made a note to ask one of the goblins what it was called. All he knew was that it came from some place called  _ Nagrand. _

“Not Sanguinar,” Kael concurred. The room quieted for a moment, save for Rommath’s soft chewing. His prince poured himself a glass of the too-glittery water, deep in thought. 

Telonicus was out of the question if they ever hoped to leave this Lightforsaken goblin town, and Capernian had enlisted the assistance of a bright mage several years their elder named Voren’thal to aid in the construction of a portal. Without being able to ask the mages of Shattrath, the work was difficult and time consuming, even accounting for her considerable skill with magical formulae. Neither was this a mission to chance with any of the Sunfury generals ﹣ Mellichar, Sarannis, Daellis, Ardonis, or their subordinates. And Rommath. Well.

Kael hadn’t even trusted Rommath to lead Quel’Thalas in his absence. (He told himself he wasn’t bitter about this but ﹣ a  _ Farstrider?  _ Really?) He certainly would not allow Rommath to travel home with such precious cargo. 

(And it was fine. Rommath was fine. He was needed here, with Kael, anyway.)

“I’ll put together a list of possible candidates,” he said lightly. Airily. (This was going to be a headache, he knew.) “At worst, we could always send for Astalor.”

Astalor had been asked to make the journey to the Outland, but by that point, he had been holding Rommath’s position as Grand Magister for two years and was needed much more desperately there. Kael, for once, had respected his friend’s decision. Astalor as the interim Grand Magister was one of the very few things that did not cause Rommath undue stress.

“Do you think it wise for him to leave Silvermoon?” Kael questioned. He was looking at Rommath curiously. “Isn’t he doing…” He struggled to remember. It had been such a long time since they had been home. “Doesn’t he oversee the Blood Knights?”

“That’s Liadrin’s project,” Rommath replied. “Could you honestly see  _ Astalor _ swinging a sword?” Astalor  helped, certainly, but he was no warrior. For now, the Blood Knights operated ﹣ on paper, at least ﹣ as a division of the Magisterium.

“Right. Right, of course. I forgot.” His prince looked thoughtful. “Regardless, he  does hold your office for you. I don’t think it the best idea for him to leave. You know how long it takes to travel to Shattrath.”

Indeed, even contracting a goblin wyvern meant two days of flying, and hoping the meagre outposts owned by the Shataari Skyguard or Sylvanaar were both able to house them and willing to provide a fresh mount. It was possible, theoretically, to fly straight through the Twisting Nether to Hellfire Peninsula and then onward to Shattrath from there, but no scout they had sent had ever returned. The Twisting Nether made Rommath uneasy, and not only because of the rumors of demons. Traveling by ground was out of the question ﹣ it had taken them nearly a four months to reach the Netherstorm the first time.

All the more reason to allow Capernian and Voren’thal to work uninterrupted and construct a stable,  _ permanent _ portal quickly.

“Well,” and now Rommath was getting annoyed, “if you’re going to keep shooting down my suggestions, why don’t you make a few of your own then?” He took a messy bite of his sandwich and scrambled for a napkin.

“Why not you?”

Rommath’s chewing slowed, and he raised an eyebrow at his friend. Kael was looking at him quite earnestly, his face trusting and open in a way Rommath had not seen in some time. He swallowed. 

“What about me?” he asked slowly. He pushed his plate away, eyes on Kael.

“There is no one I trust more than you, Rommath. You are my dalah’norfal _ , _ and you have not left my side since we first departed Silvermoon.”

Rommath frowned. The words were out of his mouth before he could bite them back. “You trusted Lor’themar over me.” 

It was petty and selfish, and Rommath was  _ not _ still bothered by it after two years. He wasn’t. 

(He was. So badly.)

A crease formed between Kael’s brows and the corners of his mouth quirked. “Rommath,” he said gently, “you can’t possibly still hold that against me.” 

Oh, if only Kael knew… He had never held  _ anything _ against his prince, unable to be angry for longer than it took to look into his clear, blue-green eyes. It had always been impossible to be angry with Kael, but it still  _ stung. _

“No,” he agreed quietly after a moment. “No, I do not.” 

Kael grinned brightly and placed a hand on his arm. Large hands, with long, slender fingers. The skin was rougher than it used to be, the nails no longer long and manicured but blunt and square like a common working man’s. That hand squeezed his bare arm gently, so gently and strangely at odds with the firm, strict man his prince was becoming. Had become, after the Sunwell. 

“You could never stay angry with me,” he teased, and he knew not how true that was.

Rommath rolled his eyes. “Why me?” he asked, anxious to return to Kael’s odd suggestion. And Kael grew suddenly very serious, seemed much older than his thirteen hundred years.

“I worry about Silvermoon,” he murmured. “Of course Lor and Astalor are doing everything they can, but we have not been home in such a long time.”

“Three years is not a long time,” Rommath scoffed.

“For our people right now, three years is an  _ eternity. _ ” Kael’s eyes bore into him, so full of fire and passion Rommath nearly had to look away. “Who else can I trust but you to safely deliver the crystals and guide my dear cousin? You’ve told me more than once that he is no politician.”

“You’re…” He abruptly felt very cold, despite the warmth of the inn and Kael’s body so close. “You’re sending me home.” It was not a question, but Kael answered him anyway.

“The Magisterium has always held much power, Rommath,” he explained, “and you of all people know how to wield it. I am worried with Astalor occupying its seat, its power may weaken. He has never been as strong as you are.” 

Rommath wanted to speak out in defense of their friend, but he didn’t. Kael was right. In the face of difficult decisions, Astalor would cower behind someone else more often than not.

“I do not believe that my cousin Lor’themar would ever betray me,” his prince added, “but I would feel infinitely better if you were there to keep him in line.”

If his loyalty to Kael were ever called into question, Rommath would not back down. Kael  _ needed  _ him now as he had not needed him in Quel’Thalas, and it was not what Rommath wanted, not at all, but he could no more refuse his prince than he could erase the sun. 

Kael was looking at him, his elegant face with its sharp Sunstrider cheekbones carefully composed, but his eyes spoke the words he would not.  _ I have no one else, Rommath. I desperately need your help. _ The same look Kael had given him three years ago, standing in the ruins of the Sunspire and searching for a solution.

Rommath fell into the pools of Kael’s eyes, and knew he would do whatever his prince asked. “I suppose,” he sighed, drawing the words out slowly. As though it were some great burden to please his friend. “If there is no one else.”

And Kael pulled Rommath to him then, so suddenly that Rommath nearly lost his seat. Golden hair mixed with black as Kael reached up, cupped the back of his head. Rommath’s heart clenched. Their foreheads touched; he could see every newly blossoming emerald fleck in Kael’s eyes, every eyelash. (And how easy would it be then, to declare his loyalty and love to his prince by closing the last few inches with his lips? 

No, stop it, Rommath.)

“Thank you,” his prince breathed. His words were warm against Rommath's face.

“Kael﹣”

And then Kael was pulling away, ever so slightly, and pressing his cool lips to Rommath’s forehead. His breath caught in his throat ﹣ how  _ long _ had he wanted to feel the weight of those lips? ﹣ and he froze, unable to contain the shock streaking across his face. A thousand images raced in his mind ﹣ pulling Kael's chin down to kiss his lips, wrapping his arms around his prince as he’d wanted to do all these past, frustrating years, giving into his baser desires and pressing himself to Kael, licking hungrily into his mouth and  _ showing _ him just how badly Rommath loved him ﹣ but he was frozen, blood roaring in his ears and widened eyes fixated on the pale skin of Kael’s throat. 

For one brief, beautiful, time-stopping moment, there was nothing but the weight of Kael’s lips on his skin. And then it was over. 

“I’ll arrange for Selin to escort you,” Kael chattered, already back in place and his mind elsewhere. “The draenei won’t question you too closely with a royal guard.”

Oh. Yes. Right. The mana crystals. They were probably contraband in Shattrath. Or would be, once the draenei learned of them. 

Stupid,  _ stupid. _ Kael didn’t feel the same as Rommath did. They were close, the dalah’norfals of the epics. What was a kiss between brothers? Absolutely nothing.

(But Kael had touched his  _ hair… _ )

Rommath prayed he was not blushing.

(It was _nothing._ )

Kael seemed not to notice his friend’s distress, wracking his brain for a list of trustworthy guards to send home with him, and for once Rommath was thankful that Kael’s attention to detail was minimal. His heart was pounding so loudly he was stunned Kael didn’t hear it. 

(Say something, Rommath. Say something!)

“﹣and I think perhaps Naradiel as well. What say you?” 

(Say anything. Just say anything in coherent Thalassian.)

“Oh.” Rommath swallowed, not having heard a single name. Composed himself. Tried again. “That sounds… that should be adequate.”

* * *

Rommath had long gotten over portal sickness, but the otherwordly travel between Azeroth and the Outland was an entirely different beast. He spent two days recovering, in the cramped little tent in the Blasted Lands camp, and was in a foul mood on the third. He felt he’d vomited his entire body weight in the past forty-eight hours and sweated enough to fill a lake.

The guard Kael had put together said nothing. Half of them only saw him safely to Shattrath, Selin Fireheart included, and the other half were near as sick as Rommath had been. He didn’t know if portaling once more would make the nausea worse, but at this point, he simply wanted to go home. 

(He refused to think about Kael. His friend had hugged him goodbye, hard and tight as though for the last time. He didn’t think about it.)

The Hall of Portals within the Sunspire was quiet when Rommath arrived, followed by his guard and twenty hefty crates. Before the Scourge, portal masters worked day and night, and  _ quiet _ was unheard of. He scowled in the direction of one of them, perched on a three-legged stool and gaping.

“Find Magister Astalor,” he snapped. “And the Regent Lord. Inform them of my return.”

  
  


Vor’na wasn’t in the Grand Magister’s office. Rommath’s scowl deepened. He had relied on her, before he’d left, trusted her judgement on the running of the Magisterium and supporting Astalor in his stead. At this time of day, she should have been grading papers from the Academy or answering correspondence. 

“Leave them here,” he snapped to the guards, gesturing to the crates. “They’ll have to be rationed, as soon as I speak to Astalor and the Regent Lord.” The precious mana crystals would be kept under lock and key and many, many wards. Already he could feel the energy draining from him ﹣ creating the portal home from the Blasted Lands had used whatever mana stores the Netherstorm had given him. He hoped twenty crates would be enough. 

“Rommath? By the Light, it  _ is _ you!” 

Rommath turned at the sound of his friend’s voice. His lips turned up at the corners, despite his immediate concerns ﹣ Astalor was thinner than he remembered, and the pale of his hair looked nearly white. Had it always been so? But he was  _ solid _ in Rommath’s arms and Rommath couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him as he hugged Astalor back. 

“It’s nice to see you, Astalor.” And when they pulled away, Rommath couldn’t keep the grin from his face if he tried. 

“It’s better to see you,” his friend replied. “You look well.” 

(Rommath would not lie and say the same.)

“Where is Vor’na?” he asked. “I could use her help cataloging the spoils of Outland while you and I catch up.” He gestured towards the crates, stacked neatly in the middle of the room and taking up too much space. “We have much to talk about.”

Astalor’s face fell. He suddenly looked like the small, timid boy Rommath had first met, the one so lovingly but relentlessly bullied by Kael. Rommath arched one delicate eyebrow.

“What?” he demanded.

“Oh Rommath.” Astalor’s voice was soft and pained. “I have  _ much _ to tell you.”

* * *

The undead had been eradicated from the city in the years Rommath had been away, but a new sickness had begun plaguing its people. Astalor had told him once, during a spotty correspondence somewhere in Zangarmarsh, but with the more pressing matters of the Sunfury mission, Rommath had not spared much thought for it, and by the time he'd remembered, Astalor had stopped speaking of it. Sighing, his friend took him now to what had once been the western half of the city. From the safety of Falconwing Square, he took it all in. The overgrowth of once manicured gardens. The rubble of collapsing buildings. And the people ﹣ the  _ people _ ﹣ shuffling about in a daze. 

They didn’t  _ look _ dead. (Or undead. Whatever.) But there was something  _ wrong _ about them all the same. Many of them were clad only in tatters, their hair limp and greasy and their skin pulled tightly against their bones. Their eyes shone in a sickly way, and they mulled about aimlessly, with no direction or ambition. They looked worse than death.

Heavily armed soldiers patrolled the Square. Not Farstriders, but real soldiers clad in plate. A walkway had been raised above the ground, safe passage through the ruins. A walkway that had not been there before. 

Astalor called it Wretchedness, this awful wasting sickness, and said it started after he and Kael and the Sunfury had left. At first it affected only the magisters, those who before the Sunwell’s collapse spent much of their days bathed in mana and spellcraft. The mana withdrawal had sent many of them spiraling ﹣ into hopelessness, into despair. Into insanity. Into…  _ this. _ And then it started affecting the rest of the population. The temporary council of Silvermoon ﹣ Astalor, Theron, and Brightwing ﹣ had watched in horror as the survivors of the Scourge became desperate,  _ hungry _ for more than just bread. The Magister’s Sanctum and the Magisterium became fortresses, locked tight and heavily patrolled, after the afflicted began stealing. There had been break ins, and anything made of mana ﹣ rich women’s perfumes, manaberries, rare silks, and the few precious, rare crystallized mana worth fortunes ﹣ had been consumed in frenzy. Farstriders reported that the treants of Eversong Woods were being massacred for their mana, and powerful mages and priests began hiring armed guards to ensure their own safety. 

There had been murders. 

Rommath felt pale and cold as he hadn’t since setting foot on the violet soil of Netherstorm. He didn't know that _Wretchedness_ had... Had never imagined what it _meant..._ “Is there no cure?” he asked, shaken.

Astalor averted his eyes. “Not that we’ve found,” he said uneasily. “Lor’themar thinks it’s possible. That’s why…” He looked out into the ruined city, and Rommath didn’t need him to finish.  _ That’s why he allows them to live there. _

His throat felt tight. He sucked in a loud, anxious breath. “And Vor’na?”

Vor’na had been so powerful. Had once been a powerful priestess and then become an even more powerful mage. Had once been the only one in Quel’Thalas who could rival Rommath in both alchemy and magic. 

Astalor didn’t look at him. He squared his shoulders, as though that would help him deliver the truth he’d been dreading revealing for the better part of three years. When he spoke, the words were but the barest whisper. 

“One of the first.”

And Rommath had known ﹣ had  _ known _ ﹣ that doing what she did cost an obscene amount of mana. One did not switch magical disciplines like clothing. But had he known what it would do to her, he would have dragged her with them to Arathi, to the Dark Portal, to the Netherstorm. Maybe she would still be Vor’na, if he’d brought her to Netherstorm. 

(But no. Rommath had thought she would serve Astalor better than him. After all, he was holding the office of Grand Magister and she was the Grand Magister’s assistant. Stupid,  _ stupid _ Rommath.)

It was the children all over again. 

Part of him wanted to scream. Wanted to rage and cry, to call forth the fire from his gut and sling it at every single person and every single building and tree until there was nothing left, until he could collapse in a heap and be  _ done. _ On the inside, he was hyperventilating ﹣ he was Astalor, back when they’d first met, freaking out and sobbing. But he couldn’t give in to those urges. He was the Grand Magister, and he was home, and he would save them. 

Wasn’t that why he and Kael had left? Wasn’t that why Kael had sent him back?

He thought he caught, out of the corner of his eye, the sight of long dark hair, of fine robes grown dirty and tattered. He thought he caught, out of the corner of his eye, the sight of someone who might be…

He looked away. He couldn’t bring himself to look right now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that in this canon, hair touching is a personal, intimate thing, and it's kind of highly inappropriate for Kael to put his hands on Rommath's hair. It's akin to kissing, and while Rommath and Kael may be close enough friends, literally if any elf had walked in they'd be like "...do you guys want a room?"
> 
> I often lose track of time (thanks, covid) but this time I KNOW it's been a while between updates and I'm so sorry! My health has been really poor lately and I spend much of my time sleeping. :(


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rommath gets around to the things he put off yesterday. To be fair, he didn't think he could stomach Halduron Brightwing the same day as performing a cross-continental portal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be another "three chapters in the past" rather than two, because this particular chapter got too long. Thank you, Talyn_Drake, for letting me chuck ideas at you. :)
> 
> (Please ignore the grammar and spelling issues. I will go over this with a fine-toothed comb probably tomorrow, but I really wanted to get this out there tonight because you guys are awesome.)

He didn’t remember the walk back to the Spire, or what he had for dinner. He didn’t even remember letting himself into his apartments. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

When he awoke, it was very early. The sun had barely begun to peek above the horizon, and the cool night air had not yet dissipated from his rooms. Shivering a little (and here he chastised himself, because hadn’t the Netherstorm been more cold than this?), Rommath pulled the blankets more tightly around himself, frowning at their weight. Surely he had never slept with such heavy blankets before? Cracking open one sleepy eye, he came face to face with the murderous stare of a tortoiseshell cat. 

“By the Light!” he hissed, surprise washing over him. There were no cats in Netherstorm, had not been cats in his life in quite some time. 

The cat in his bed said nothing, her green eyes intense and unrelenting. If anything, she seemed to scowl at his shock. 

“Kim’dal!” he breathed. And oh, it was sweet to see her again. When he had left, she had been but a small kitten, a mess of fur and gangly legs. She was still a small, delicate thing, but she had grown into those legs now, and her fur was long and glossy and sleek. A bottlebrush tail, wrapped around her feet, twitched at the mention of her name, but she did not move or make a sound. He had left her behind when he set out with Kael ﹣ perhaps she was angry with him. 

Wide awake now, Rommath slipped a hand from beneath the sheets and held it out to her to sniff. Kim’dal stared at him in disdain, her yellow-green eyes pale in the morning light. And then, very pointedly, she turned away from him and leapt to the floor in a huff of brown and cream fur.

Well. Rommath supposed he deserved that. 

She was gone by the time he managed to pull himself from the bed, but Rommath set out a dish of food anyway, the action still familiar and routine after so long away. He placed a bowl of clean water on the floor and called to her, but if she had not left through the open window in his living room, she was certainly ignoring him. He decided not to push his luck. Rather, he dug through his wardrobe for a clean robe and combed his hair, and after splashing some water on his face he left, forgoing breakfast entirely. He had too much to do; breakfast could wait.

* * *

The Spire had been rebuilt before he had left Silvermoon, not being badly damaged, and the royal palace had sustained only minor, cosmetic blows, and even at this early hour it was alive with the quiet bustling about of servants, apprentices, guild heads, and government staff. Rommath ignored them ﹣ none of them were of particular interest to him, and they all bowed or skittered away at his approach. He stopped on the second floor to scritch at the ears of a fat orange tomcat but otherwise continued, from his chambers to his office, uninterrupted before coming to a sudden stop in the middle of the hallway.

His office door was ajar. 

Rommath narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t sure what foolishness Astalor had gotten up to in his time as interim Grand Magister, but _everyone_ knew that Rommath’s office was not to be entered until Rommath himself was present. He was positive the news of his return had spread ﹣ Brightwing could no more keep a secret than he could stay sober ﹣ and whoever had the audacity to simply _stroll_ into his office was either very brave or very stupid. 

It was probably Brightwing. 

Carefully, Rommath pushed open the heavy door. The wards had not been broken but had been deactivated, he noted. The work of a skilled mage. An assassin? (Not a very clever or stealthy one, if so.) A cat lounged on the divan, unaware of either the intruder or his presence, and Rommath supposed that should have reassured him ﹣ but he had not kept himself and Kael alive this long without a healthy dose of paranoia. 

His desk was neat, and no drawers seemed to have been opened, no files disturbed. His ears twitched in the direction of the cupboard and he whirled, every hair standing on end. Storming towards the back of the room, he yanked the cupboard door open with a snarl, ready to set the intruder alight. 

A tray crashed to the ground. “Oh, by the Sunwell!” yelped a feminine voice.

It was not Brightwing. 

Standing before him was a girl, white as a sheet. In her shaking hands she held a tin of… was that coffee? 

“They told me you were﹣”

“ _What are you doing in my office?”_ Rommath demanded, his tone scathing. 

The girl looked confused. “I don’t under﹣”

“ _Who said you could be here?”_

Her eyes widened. “Magist﹣”

“ _Do you know whose office you’ve trespassed in? Get out!”_

He shouted until she fled, still clutching the tin, slamming the office door behind her and then returned to the cupboard. He and Astalor had stored a portion of the mana crystals here, sealed tight in warded crates; upon a _thorough_ examination, the wards appeared intact, and upon breaking them to look inside, the crystals glimmered at him, undisturbed. Scowling, he refreshed the wards and locked the cupboard door. They would have to find a better place for their most precious resource. 

It was a long morning. 

He sifted through the papers on his desk. Most were requests from important officials, congratulating him on his safe return from the Outland and asking for meetings. These Rommath burned without ceremony. He had neither the time nor the patience for such trivial formalities. A Farstrider hand delivered a missive from Theron, who also requested a formal meeting. Rommath rolled his eyes and told the Farstrider he would be by when he had the time. 

How impudent, that Theron thought he could just order Rommath about. The man may be Kael’s cousin, but Rommath was _the Grand Magister._ Theron would learn his place and he would learn it soon, if Rommath had any say.

Instead, he sent for Astalor. He needed someone by his side, someone trustworthy and able and beyond scrutiny. There was much to be done ﹣ the teaching of mana siphoning, demonstrations for the citizens of Silvermoon, distribution of crystals and notices to be printed. Astalor, like Rommath, had a mind for these sorts of things, and there was not a moment to waste.

He took a sip of his coffee and nearly gagged. Dreadful, oversweetened northern crap. Even the stuff in the Netherstorm (which Rommath wasn’t sure even _was_ coffee) had less sugar. Scowling, he pushed the cup aside. He would have to find someone to make the trip to Morningstar City and ﹣ 

There was no Morningstar anymore. He’d forgotten. 

( _How could he have forgotten?)_

Disturbed, Rommath glared at the offending drink. ( _Had he really been away that long?)_ He would have to find a new brand of coffee, at any rate. 

“I see you’re still the same as always, my friend.” Astalor’s cheerful voice broke through the dangerous rabbit hole of the past, and Rommath whirled, the frown sitting on his face as though he’d been born with it. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said crabbily. Gesturing towards the coffee, he grumbled, “Who said you could replace my coffee with this swill?” And Astalor laughed. 

“Well, if you hadn’t run off Erindae, you would have your own.” With a glint in his eye, the magister pulled something small and rectangular from his pocket and placed it with a metallic bark on his desk. The label, slightly scratched, read in thick, blocky script, _Tranquillien’s Finest Coffee._

It was the tin the girl from this morning had been clutching, when Rommath found her in his cupboard. 

“Who is Erindae?” First the crystals and now his coffee… 

“She’s your assistant,” Astalor said smoothly.

“I don’t have an assistant,” Rommath snapped. “You informed me of that yesterday.”

“No,” Astalor corrected patiently. “I told you that you no longer had Vor’na. I never said a word about Erindae.” He frowned then. “Perhaps I should have. You gave her quite the scare.”

Rommath’s head jerked up. “Is that who I found stealing from my cupboard this morning?” he asked suspiciously. 

Only Astalor’s sense of propriety kept him from rolling his eyes or smacking him. “She was not stealing,” he explained. 

“She was in my cupboard! She took this tin!”

“Because I _told her_ to be here,” Astalor stressed. “She was going to take on all of this” and here he gestured towards the papers threatening to consume Rommath’s desk “and help with this secret cargo of yours.”

Rommath was getting a headache. He cursed the mana bleeding from him with his every breath. He wished he was back in the Netherstorm. “I never agreed to that,” he grit out. “Who is this girl and why would she presume to make herself at home in _my office?”_

And Astalor, while doing exactly the same, told him. The girl he’d screamed at early this morning was Erindae Firestriker, a graduate from the Royal Silvermoon Academy where they themselves had spent their formative years. She had finished her schooling with a special interest in magical theory and essence of mana and, banned from studying in Dalaran by royal decree, she had instead begun working immediately with the Magisterium. According to Astalor, she had a bright mind and an intimate understanding of the wasting sickness (as it had been called three years ago) that had befallen the Scourge survivors, and had been recruited by Vor’na as an apprentice of sorts, before Wretchedness ultimately took her. Vor’na had trained the girl in the art of managing the office of the Grand Magister, and Astalor had given her a prime seat in the management of the Wretched. 

“She has been a trusted member of staff in the time you’ve been away,” Astalor finished. Rommath raised an eyebrow. 

“She sounds like someone seeking to undermine my position,” he said irritably. “She usurped Vor’na ﹣ who’s to say she won’t do the same to me?”

“Erindae was deeply affected by Vor’na’s… condition,” Astalor said softly. “We all were. It is not a pretty thing, this Wretchedness. Watching it take her…” He cleared his throat. Shook his head, pale hair falling loose over his shoulder. “By the Light, Rommath,” he admonished, no bite to his words. “I have complete faith in her. I thought my opinion mattered to you.”

He was right. Three years of Kael ﹣ of putting their faith in the _wrong_ people, of betrayals and jailings and the splintering led by Auric Sunchaser ﹣ had made him paranoid. Astalor was not Modera, was not Garithos. Astalor was _on his side,_ and Rommath was acting as though he was not. If Astalor thought this girl, this… _Erindae Firestriker,_ was worthy of the information he possessed, perhaps he ought to be as well. 

He could not admit to his wrongness. “When did you start saying that?” he asked instead. “ _By the Light._ Have you found your faith again?” The Scourge had shattered many an elf’s belief in the Light.

Astalor started. “I… I suppose I picked it up from you,” he replied. There was a hesitance to his words. 

(And Rommath was not religious either, but being his sister’s brother and his mother’s son, there were some things one could not help, and swearing in the name of the Light was one of them.)

“After eleven hundred years?” he teased. “Did you miss me that dearly, that you’ve taken my mannerisms as your own?” 

And Astalor did something then that he had never done, something Rommath did nearly every day. He snorted ﹣ he actually _snorted_ ﹣ and rolled his eyes. “Yes, that’s it,” he chuckled dryly. “I imitate you, my best friend, in order to fill the void you created in my heart when you left.”

“Oh?” Rommath grinned. “It wasn’t only to appear more grand to the people in the interim?”

“I believe the people think I am an improvement over you,” Astalor laughed. “I don’t terrify the general populace.”

Rommath shook his head, amused. “The Grand Magister is supposed to be intimidating,” he admonished. “I will have to do a lot of backtracking to get my reputation back.”

“I always found Belo’vir quite personable,” his friend protested. 

“Belo’vir was intimidating in his own way,” Rommath told him. His former mentor had socialized more with the king than with his assistants and Rommath, but the man had always been somewhat vaguely terrifying in Rommath’s mind. It wasn’t so much the vault of secrets he kept locked away in the recesses of his mind, slipping one innocuously before its owner in a thin threat; but more… the sheer _normalness_ of the man. He liked to walk his villa in his dressing gown and slippers, and he knew all the servants by name. He would take long lunches with the High Priest Vandellor and Lady Liadrin and return, breathless and red-faced and grinning from ear to ear; and he stood by Anasterian as close confidant and friend, often staying late into the night at the palace. He insisted on breakfasting together with Nallorath and Vor’na and Rommath, and preferred reading on the veranda before retiring for the night. He was an authority figure but, like Anasterian before him, there was a warmness to him, an aura that Rommath could not explain. He believed, if he’d had need, that he could bring any issue to the man, no matter how trivial, and Belo’vir would devote as much time and care to it as he would a matter of state. He was… _fatherly,_ in a way Rommath’s own father never was. 

(He didn’t want to think about Belo’vir. Thinking about Belo’vir, about Nallorath and Vor’na… their lives before the Scourge… He couldn’t think about that anymore.)

“By the Light,” he swore, his good mood ebbing away. “Let’s just… call your girl, this Erindae. We have much to do today.”

* * *

Erindae Firestriker turned out to be younger than Rommath had thought, but her youth was no detriment. She was composed and calm under his harsh eye, the only outward sign of her anxiety lay in the very subtle stiffness of her mouth, and seemed unperturbed by the events of this morning. If she expected an apology she gave no sign, and while Astalor may have disapproved (because of course Astalor _would_ be the type to apologize to staff), Rommath thought it just as well. She wasn’t going to get one. 

He left her with his frankly concerning pile of papers and swept out of the office, mana crystals hidden securely in a pocket of his robes. He supposed he really ought to meet with Theron ﹣ the man _was_ the Regent Lord, even if Rommath didn’t like him or think him suited. He should have met with Theron the moment he portalled in, but the thought of sitting across from him and that thistlehead Ranger General left a bad taste in his mouth. With Astalor by his side, he felt better. At least the only brain cell in the room wouldn’t be his own.

The office Theron had claimed for his own was still in the same place on the first floor, past a small number of Silvermoon guards in full regalia. (He was vaguely pleased someone had managed to knock some sense into the man, who at first had insisted he _didn’t need babysitters.)_ Rommath entered without knocking, eyeing the new decor with distaste. A massive pair of troll tusks, polished and unchipped, adorned the wall above a squashy couch. A woven rug of distinctly southern style lay on the floor, the greens and browns and coppers indicative of the forests from which he’d come. It would have been quite a fine rug were it not for the coarse material of its make. A small sigil of Light hung just beside one open window (and that was something that surprised him, if he were honest, for he had not taken dear cousin Lor for one of the Light’s children), carved from dark Amani oak and looking slightly out of place among the pale northern wood that made up the rest of the furniture. A longbow and quiver of arrows had been thrown haphazard on the marbled floor and one Halduron Brightwing lay sprawled across another squashy couch, a fat roll of bloodthistle pinched between thumb and forefinger. In a comfortable chair across from him, back to the door (and what leader in his right mind sits with his back to a door?), peeked the blonde head of Lor’themar Theron. 

Theron turned at the sound of the doors flying open. He wore a handsome leather patch over his damaged eye. “Rom﹣ Grand Magister! Glad to have you back! And Astalor, happy to see you as well.” Brightwing was upright in a flash, hair tousled and ash flying.

Had Theron been about to call him by his given name? In what universe were the two of them on a first name basis? “Regent Lord,” he acknowledged. “Ranger General.” 

“Good of you to make yourself known,” Brightwing quipped, smoke curling from the cigar in hand. “It isn’t as though we’ve been waiting on you or anything.”

“My apologies,” Rommath said tersely, without meaning it. “I needed a day to recover my faculties.” And to gather the patience to deal with the abysmal idiocy that was Brightwing, he thought but did not say. 

“Rommath comes bearing great news from the prince,” Astalor said quickly, already twitchy and on high alert. The last time Rommath and Brightwing had been in the same room had not gone well. 

“You do?” Theron stood, and while he reeked of the cloying scent of bloodthistle, Rommath was relieved to see his eye was clear and his feet steady. “By all means, Grand Magister. We could use a spot of good news.”

“Mm.” Brightwing took a long drag of his cigar and held it, before speaking again in a puff of smoke. “After two murders and the Amani rumors, I could use a _drink,_ quite honestly, with this news.”

Rommath shot him a withering look. “Put that out,” he snapped, “and show some respect. This isn’t a bar and I am not one of your rangers.” 

Brightwing narrowed his eyes. Opened his mouth to argue. Shut it promptly and stabbed the thistle into a crystal dish. A marked improvement from their last encounter, really. Perhaps he was finally learning his place. 

The silence didn’t last. 

“Where did you get those?” Brightwing demanded, his wide, hungry eyes tracking the movement of the crystals in Rommath’s hand. The room seemed to be almost electrically charged from the moment of their reveal, and five eyes were glued to the shimmering blue glass. Astalor was practically salivating. 

Mana crystals were a natural, though extremely rare, phenomenon in Quel’Thalas. They could occasionally be found within the ore extracted from the Underlight Mines, and a lucky mage might rarely produce their own as a byproduct of enormous magical energies. The extremely wealthy had capitalized on the crystals’ rarity, grinding them into foodstuffs and fashioning them into pricey jewelry or shimmering silks. According to Astalor, these items had been destroyed in the three years Rommath had been gone, broken in a feeble attempt to harvest the mana within.

“Prince Kael’thas,” Rommath began, “and the Sunfury have settled in a region of the Outland known as the Netherstorm. This region is bathed in unchecked mana ﹣ simply breathing its air is enough to feel healthy and whole again.” 

_Healthy and whole._ Rommath had been in Silvermoon less than two days and he was already forgetting how that felt. 

“Our beloved prince has devised an ingenious method of not only containing this mana, but of pulling it from its worldly vessel and into one’s own body.” Astalor and the rangers were staring at him. Theron’s mouth had actually dropped open. Rommath supposed that, to them, he might as well have announced the second coming of Dath’Remar. 

(Rommath didn’t tell them about Illidan Stormrage. He had made that decision immediately, sensing it would only complicate matters, sow distrust. Siphoning mana from the crystals was a bandage atop a seeping wound, but a bandage they desperately needed, and he would take no risks in their implementation.)

“That’s…” Astalor stopped, took a moment to piece together his words. The gentle pulse of the crystals, now that they were out in the open, was affecting them all. Rommath felt calmer, stronger for holding them. “That’s impossible,” his friend said thickly. “We’ve tried. Not even the Sanctum’s best mages could…”

Rommath grinned. “Prince Kael’thas is far more clever than the Sanctum’s best mages,” he told them grandly. 

Brightwing’s eyes were bright blue saucers, and for the first time in his life he was mercifully silent, watching as Rommath separated one crystal from the others and dug the pad of his thumb into one smooth side. It glowed as it cracked under the pressure, and Rommath felt himself give in. Felt his body’s depleted energies _pull_ the precious mana from the crystal, felt it seep into his tired bones and settle in his marrow, felt it flow through his blood sluggish with the fatigue of loss. He inhaled deeply and felt all at once more alert, more at ease, and less irrational.

It was a staggeringly simple spell at its core, one of Stormrage’s own making and (Rommath suspected) ancient in design. Astalor had no trouble with it, brilliant as he was, and the change that came over him was remarkable. Color returned to his cheeks, and his limp hair shone with a healthy glow. His eyes were bright and clear, and he seemed to have had an enormous weight lifted from his shoulders. 

“Rommath,” Astalor breathed, fingers clutched around the broken crystal. “This is… This…”

A crack, and the smell of pure mana flooded the room once more. The rangers sat stunned in the glow, looking for all the world like they had looked into the Light itself and seen all the secrets contained within. 

“Miracle,” came Theron’s voice, shocked but strong. His one pupil had blown wide, and a grin spread over his too wide mouth. “This is a _miracle.”_

“Lor,” breathed Brightwing. “Do you think…” He scrubbed a hand over his face, and then stared at it as though it was not his own. “Shit, Lor. Could this be the cure for the Wretched? Could this… could it _save...._ ”

Rommath knew all too well what his colleagues felt. He remembered it clear as day, the moment Stormrage had taught him how to pull mana from its source, wherever it lived. The feeling of power, of disbelief, of _hope_ for the first time since the Sunwell’s fall. 

“Yes.” Five eyes turned to him, the same jumble of feelings on their own faces that Rommath had felt all those long months before. “It is the prince’s hope that these crystals keep up the spirits of the people of Quel’Thalas. He is working tirelessly in pursuit of a cure for the sin’dorei.” Rommath fixed each of them with a calm, steely eye. “Prince Kael’thas will save us all.”

* * *

It was disorienting, if he were entirely honest with himself, to be back in Silvermoon. His time with Kael ﹣ living out of inns and tents and Dalaranian dungeons ﹣ had rendered the city oddly foreign in his mind. Some progress had been made, of course, in its restoration, and the walled off eastern half should not have made the city feel so different. But it did. If it weren’t for Astalor at his side, he might have gotten lost in the streets he had once known like the back of his hand. 

His friend had insisted he see what had become of the fledgling Blood Knight Order. When Rommath had left, it had been nothing more than a handful of former priests, Farstriders, and Liadrin congregating in the basement of the Magister’s Sanctum. With Astalor’s help, Liadrin had transformed her haggard, weary brothers and sisters into warriors of the Light, annihilating the remnants of the Scourge where they stood. Eversong Woods had been infested with undead when Rommath had departed with Kael; under Liadrin, their numbers had dropped from thousands to only a few hundred. 

The blood knights had claimed the Pavillion of Blades as their training yard, a large, open area surrounded on all sides by tall orange-leafed trees. In the old days, the Silvermoon Royal Guard trained there, and he and Kael and Astalor had often snuck out to watch. Selin Fireheart, before he was a captain, had always had a moment to spare for them, even if none of them had ever really picked up sword fighting. But these blood knights…

Rommath watched from the edge of the yard as two elves in full armor sparred. One was tall and broad-shouldered, and his sword dangled uselessly in one hand as he all but hid behind a battered shield with the other. His opponent was smaller, and handled a great, two-handed broadsword with ease. There was the clash of metal on metal again, and again, and again, as the smaller knight bore down on the larger. With every swing of the sword, the taller knight was forced by its momentum to take a step back or risk falling to the ground. Rommath thought dimly that such a huge weapon must leave awful wounds, even in spar.

“Grand Magister! I’d heard you’d returned.” 

Rommath tore his gaze away from the match to see the Lady Liadrin, a sword buckled at her waist and helmet tucked under her arm. He offered her a small smile. “It’s good to be home,” he said by way of greeting.

“Nice to have you back,” Liadrin said agreeably. “Astalor doesn’t have the bite that you do.” And her lips twitched up at the corners as she shot the magister a teasing look. Astalor, for his part, blanched. 

“She means people don’t run in fear from me.” 

“No one would fear you.” If Rommath had said it, the words would have been harsh, cutting, but from Liadrin they held a note of amusement. Friendship. Certainly neither of them had been on joking terms before he’d left with Kael. 

(Personally, sometimes Rommath had wondered whether Liadrin knew what a joke even was.)

“Solanar and I have done what we can,” she was saying. “I’m sure you remember our early struggles.” Funding had been tight, Rommath remembered, and spirits had been low. Not a one among them even had a full set of armor three years ago, and now here they were, in chainmail and plate of notedly decent craftsmanship. Astalor had kept him updated, of course. But to _see_ them, not just a ragtag group of survivors but a small militia… 

Well. He certainly _had_ missed quite a lot.

“Is this all of them?” he asked, eyes back on the two sparring paladins. Liadrin shook her head.

“A half dozen was dispatched to the East Sanctum last week,” she informed him. “And we’ve started assigning a few more capable people to Farstrider companies.” Rommath nodded absent-mindedly. That was the sort of thing priests did. Perhaps there were too few priests to spare for the rangers anymore. 

A whoop went up from the gathered paladins as the taller fighter was dealt a blow so harsh it sent him sprawling in the dirt. Rommath saw Solanar Sunwrath ﹣ no, he was Solanar _Blood_ wrath now ﹣ grinning from the far side of the yard. He still wore his hair short; still in mourning for his dead brother. 

“I yield!” cried the defeated warrior, and he dropped both sword and shield. Even through the layers of plate, Rommath could see the harsh rise and fall of his chest. “You have bested me!”

And the paladin who’d beaten him stuck out a hand and hauled him up without ceremony. “You’re still afraid to hit me,” came a voice behind the helmet, a familiar, feminine voice. And the loser laughed, breathless and soft.

“Of course I am, you madwoman!”

“Have I hurt you? Let me see.”

Rommath knew that voice. He knew it, and he couldn’t quite put it to the figure in armor before him. The paladin gestured for the loser to remove his helmet, which he did, and with quick, skilled fingers, the cut along his jaw was gone. 

“I’d take that helmet to the blacksmith,” he was advised. “You can’t fight with it dented like that.”

“Will do, Captain.” 

“Captain!” Liadrin called. “A word.”

The captain turned towards them, and Rommath saw a hint of blue beneath the visor. Shouldering the broadsword all too easily, the smaller paladin strode over, steps confident and surefooted. Reached up with one hand to remove the helmet. And grinning brightly back at him was the red, sweaty face of his younger sister. 

(He shouldn’t be _surprised,_ he told himself. Auriel had _written_ to him, _Astalor_ had written to him. But there was something so surreal about seeing his kind, gentle sister beat the absolute shit out of a man twice her size with a sword nearly as tall as herself.)

“He did well,” Auriel told Liadrin.

“He’ll never get anywhere if he can’t swing a sword at a woman,” the Blood Matriarch groused. “Not all Scourge are men.”

“He’ll get there.” And then, “Thank you for returning my brother to me.” This was directed to Astalor.

“Well he can’t be trusted to come on his own.” Astalor tried (and failed, in Rommath’s opinion) to come off as airy, disaffected. To sound like Rommath. But a soft tone crept in between the words, ruining the effect.

Auriel’s smile in return was of the same softness. “No, he can’t,” she agreed. And then, finally, she acknowledged him. “Rommath.” 

(It should be said that Rommath feared very little in life. His sister’s anger was one of those fears.)

“I don’t suppose you forgive me?” he asked sheepishly. He had _meant_ to write her. 

Auriel looked him dead in the eye, a fire in her own he so rarely saw. “You may have me for dinner,” she said evenly, “and we will talk.” 

“I don’t believe you should make demands of the Grand Magister.”

“I’m not demanding anything of the Grand Magister,” Auriel countered, with all the airiness Astalor lacked. “I’m warning my brother that three years without _a single word_ warrants an explanation.”

(If Rommath didn’t fear being punched right there, in front of the Lady Liadrin and all her blood knights, he would have rolled his eyes at her.)

“You’ve certainly gotten aggressive since I saw you last,” he teased instead. But his sister did not match his tone. Her eyes, so full of life and fire, burned. 

“It is difficult not to be,” she said quietly, “in this new world.” She looked away, cleared her throat. Her next words were addressed to Liadrin. “I have a few things to finish.” It was not a question, and it was not posed as one, yet she waited for permission all the same.

Liadrin nodded. “By all means.” And said nothing else as Auriel set her helmet back on her head, turned sharply on her heel, and stalked off in the opposite direction of the remaining paladins. In her stead, Solanar Bloodwrath had stepped in, was counting down until he struck out at his partner. 

Rommath knew his sister had risen high, though he knew not exactly what it was blood knight captains did. Perhaps paperwork, or personal training. His sister had been the fourth elf to cast off her role as priestess and join the order. Had trained hard with mace and sword and shield and morningstar. Had worked to overcome her aversion to the Scourge, to causing “the poor souls” harm. He had heard nothing but glowing reports from Astalor and Liadrin of his sister’s progress, of her prowess on the battlefield. Had heard nothing at all about it from Auriel herself…

Perhaps he’d said something wrong?

“﹣perwork. Should get to it.” Astalor was speaking, and with some difficulty Rommath tore his attention from his sister’s retreating back, already a small silhouette far down the yard. “Rommath wants to call a meeting tonight, and I’d like to be on time.”

A meeting? Oh, right. The mana crystals. He and Astalor had discussed distributing them first among the magisters of the Sanctum and the Blood Knight Order, before spreading them among the general population. 

Liadrin was rolling her eyes. “Oh just go.” She sounded annoyed. Perhaps she was already fed up with Astalor’s policy of nonconfrontation. (It had only been three years, Rommath thought wryly. He’d been putting up with it for _centuries.)_ And Astalor was leaving now too, and Rommath was left with Liadrin for the first time since before the Scourge invasion. 

Might as well make use of the time, he supposed. 

“I was told the Regent Lord granted you use of a guild hall. Mind giving me a tour?”

Liadrin sized him up with a raised eyebrow. If they’d had a better relationship, if they’d been friends, he thought she might refuse, just to be difficult. 

“Of course. It’s on Murder Row.”

Rommath stared. 

Theron… He’d put the blood knights… _his_ blood knights… on _Murder Row?!_

(It took everything he had not to incinerate the grass at his feet. He thought he smelled smoke.)

“Lovely,” he bit out through clenched teeth. “Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two scenes were cut to make room for Erindae's introduction and Rommath's gratuitous Halduron bashing. Of course Halduron is the type to dump all his shit on the floor of Lor'themar's office, pull out a cigarette, and just start smoking, with his dirty boots on the couch. XD Lor'themar has the patience of a saint, tolerating that.
> 
> Also: Given that Rommath and Halduron are actually getting along in the present, it was jarring going back to a time period where they were at each other's throats.


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rommath receives some truly disturbing news, and Kim'dal forgives him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated M. Enjoy!

It wasn’t difficult to locate Vor’na. She spent most of her days skulking about the Sanctum or the Academy and it was largely because of her that various blood knights and even Royal Silvermoon Guards were stationed at every entrance. The magic produced by her former students and colleagues was simply too big a draw, and with her intimate knowledge of the buildings, assuring the safety of the mages had become one of the city’s highest priorities. 

Several of the murders had been Vor’na’s doing, in a desperate, futile attempt to pry the mana from their souls. 

“The Regent Lord doesn’t think it safe to let her roam free,” his assistant had told him, “and the other Wretched broke her out of the cell he’d contained her in. She lives in the eastern part of the city, by the wall.”

(Rommath thought it a testament to his many, many years with Kael that his face remained blank at these words.)

He’d ordered her brought to the Bazaar, to one of the many still abandoned buildings close to the wall. It used to be a cobbler’s, before the Scourge. A lower end cobbler’s, not one Rommath had ever been in or bought from. The glass in the windows had been replaced, and the inside swept and cleaned and empty. Rent this close to the wall was cheap, but even the seediest of shops refused to move in so close to the Wretched. 

It required three of the Lady Liadrin’s paladins to subdue Vor’na, his sister included. Astalor had informed him that there did exist a holding cell for Wretched who had infiltrated the city, but Rommath refused to consider it. This was the Lady Vor’na, a noblewomen born and bred and former assistant to the Grand Magister. He could not lock her up like some common criminal, all to simply see her.

As he entered the shop, he thought that may have been his first mistake. 

She was a wild thing, held precariously in place upon a thick wooden chair by manacles around her wrists and ankles, her lips drawn back in a snarl. Her gums, though puffy and red, had receded, showing a great deal of fang, and her waxy skin was drawn tightly over her bones. Her robes, once finely spun silk, were torn and dirty, the skirt ripped nearly to the hip and the front shredded almost obscenely. Her dark hair, which Rommath had never seen in anything less than an immaculate chignon, was loose and unruly and hung in thick, greasy clumps. But it was her eyes that frightened him. They burned with blue fire, bright and feverish and _hungry._

His sister stood to Vor’na’s right, honed in on the woman’s every move. His assistant, the one Astalor had given him, hung back, close to the door. She seemed not to want to come in. Astalor’s jaw was set, tension radiating off him. 

“Hello, Vor’na.” Despite himself, Rommath’s voice was steady. If anyone was to be cured from this sickness, she should be the first. She was looking at him curiously, as if unable to place him. 

“What do you have?” Her voice ﹣ was that her voice? It was raspy and thick, the vowels grating against each other roughly. Her eyes watered, as if speaking irritated her throat. Perhaps it did.

“What?”

She grinned, a nightmarish spectre made flesh. “I _smell_ it. You have _mana._ Is it for me?”

He felt Astalor look at him with alarm and tried his best to tamp down his own. (Mana had a smell?) He cleared his throat. “I want to help you,” he said carefully. “I have… medicine.”

They had tried medicine, Astalor had told him. Every medicine at their disposal. Had spent enormous sums, gold they didn’t have, on foreign cures and herbs and tinctures. Nothing had worked. Some had only made the condition worse. 

Vor’na was still smiling. It made the hairs on Rommath’s arms stand on end. “You have _mana,”_ she repeated. “Give it to me.”

“Free her hands,” Rommath told his sister, who did not look at him. 

“Grand Magister,” Liadrin said quietly. “Is that wise?” 

Probably not. 

“I have no other way of deliverance,” he murmured. Vor’na was watching him intently. He didn’t like it. Her eyes never left his, even as his sister and Solanar Bloodwrath unclasped first one and then the other manacle. It was only until he called his assistant, who reluctantly stepped forward, that her eyes snapped with terrifying swiftness to the box in Erindae’s hands. 

“Gimme, gimme, gimme.”

Rommath ignored her, and with Liadrin shielding his back, dispelled the wards and flipped open the lid. A mana crystal lay snugly inside, glinting sapphire in the dull light. He felt its pull. Even the small magic of the dispel had left his soul screaming to replenish what he’d taken, but he had learned in the Netherstorm to control such urges. He brushed them aside and removed the crystal.

“Gimme gimme gimme.”

His sister and Solanar stood with both hands holding Vor’na’s down, and with a glance at them, they hesitantly let go. Vor’na, to her credit, remained still, her sickly eyes fixated on the stone in Rommath’s hand.

He didn’t think she cared where he’d gotten it, or about Kael or Illidan Stormrage. Her mana reserves were depleted and she was starving, and Rommath held the means to help her. He meant to reach out, to place the crystal in her hands and extract its essence, siphoning it into her body. He didn’t think it wise she know how to do it herself. But of course, his simple plans were completely and utterly destroyed. 

Vor’na’s thin, veiny hands shot out and snatched the mana crystal, her ragged nails dragging along the skin of his palm. She cradled it briefly, briefly to her chest before smashing its weak point into her own sternum. The room filled with bright blue and the soft, sweet smell of pure mana before seeping, like blood, eagerly into the wound created by the shattered glass. Vor’na brought the empty crystal to her mouth and bit hungrily into it like an apple, and the air filled with the sickening crunch of glass. The air buzzed in the wake of the siphon, and Rommath’s head spun. 

_Vor’na knew how to siphon mana._ It was messy, certainly not the refined technique taught to him by Stormrage, but… There had been mana in the air, and now it was gone. 

“You have more.” It was not a question. “Give it.” 

Blood soaked the tatters of her robe, trickling thickly from the glass wounds. Her teeth were stained with it. His sister and Solanar leapt, but Vor’na was faster. The manacles at her ankles were suddenly on the floor, and the air filled with the scent of arcane. Pink flashes danced along Vor’na’s fingers as she rushed him, grabbed a handful of his robes. 

“Give me the mana!” Vor’na was shrieking, her nails digging in painfully, and Rommath was too stunned to react. “Gimme gimme gimme!” Blue replaced pink, and he felt so… _tired._ Someone was yelling, and the iron hand against his skin fought hard, shook with the effort to maintain the contact. A faint pink shell glinted just past Vor’na’s head ﹣ she was barricading herself into a bubble of arcane, anchoring herself to him to thwart the efforts of the blood knights. It held for a moment before shattering, a thousand pieces of solid arcane splintering and dissipating into thin air under the weight of his sister’s sword.

Rommath’s ears were ringing. His vision swam. He felt more than saw the vice of Vor’na’s hand give way, the vague golden forms of paladins struggling to contain her. Strong arms clutched at him, and there was more yelling. Astalor. Liadrin. Auriel.

“Get her out of here!”

“Is he alright?”

“Move, _move!”_

And there was his sister, a little blurry but there. She was speaking to him. Rommath grimaced, shut his eyes. His head hurt. 

“I need to sit down,” he mumbled, and someone helped him sit. Vor’na was still screaming, trying in vain to pull the mana from her captors, but Solanar and Liadrin held her fast. Rommath had thought they were overly cautious at first, donning full plate for this endeavor. He didn’t think that now. 

He was gasping for air, he realized, as his sister sat with him. He felt like he was back at the Sunwell all over again, the instantaneous loss of air in his lungs and magic in his soul. He hadn’t known Vor’na could _do_ that. He hadn’t known _anyone_ could do that. 

“Shall I fetch a healer?” 

“No. I’ve got him.” 

“Rommath.” That was Astalor, hovering anxiously. “Rommath, what on Azeroth just happened?”

He took a deep breath. His lungs couldn’t seem to expand enough to take in air. His very _skin_ hurt. “Vor’na ﹣” he exhaled, “﹣ stole ﹣ magic ﹣ from ﹣ me.”

His sister frowned. “What are you talking about?”

His heart thudded in his chest. He pressed a fist to his forehead and concentrated very hard on not blacking out. “Don’t know ﹣ how ﹣ she took ﹣ my mana ﹣”

It made sense now. How Vor’na seemed to effortlessly switch disciplines, something Rommath had always thought impossible. Vor’na drew no longer on the Light, but on her own energies to perform magic, supplemented with mana siphoned wherever she could get it. Blood magic. A life was a vastly superior, powerful form of energy, but truly unsustainable to use longterm. Rommath had read of troll witch doctors performing similar acts. It explained her great power, and her rapid decline after the fall of the Sunwell. It explained the feral banshee who had just attacked him. 

Above him, his sister and Astalor seemed to be having a silent conversation, while his assistant lingered by the door, ready at the first word to fetch the healer Auriel had insisted he did not need. Rommath didn’t want a healer. He wanted to retire to his study, lock the door, and rip his library apart. What had Vor’na _done?_ Astalor had told him that the Wretched became that way because they had no magic of their own anymore. _Why_ could Vor’na use magic, and how had she managed to drain him of his own? 

No healer would be able to answer that. 

“I’m fine,” he grumbled, once he’d caught his breath. “I’m fine.”

His sister whirled on him. “Rommath﹣”

“I’m going back to the Spire,” he said firmly. He pointed at his assistant. “She can handle my work for the day. I have other work to do.”

_“Rommath.”_

(Perhaps he should listen. After all, surely his sister knew how it felt to be completely exhausted in the most intimate, soul-weary way. He should listen.)

He stood up.

* * *

The book he wanted was not in his library. He was sure he had not read it in Dalaran, which meant it was buried somewhere in Silvermoon’s Forbidden Library. Deep underground and protected by enchantments, the Forbidden Library housed some of the most secret, dangerous, and blasphemous material in Quel’Thalas. Any book on blood magic worth its salt would be locked up tight inside. Sighing, Rommath pulled from a particularly large mana crystal secreted in the pocket of his robes. He had not the energy to dispel wards as strong as the Library’s without it, and he would not suffer hearing Astalor fret over him if he asked for help. 

He would have to teach his assistant the spells, at some point. Vor’na had known them, and Nallorath. It was not right that such powerful information be in the hand of only one man. 

  
  


One side effect of siphoning, Rommath had found, was the unfortunate overheating of his core body temperature, and his chambers were blessedly cool when he returned in the evening, a thick book tucked under his arm. He had read until his eyelids drooped, the windowless room of the Library doing nothing to account for the passage of time, and he was surprised to see that it was near midnight. The dish of cat food was empty ﹣ Kim’dal had been by, apparently not angry enough to refuse food. He wondered, vaguely, who had taken care of her in his absence. 

(Astalor, most likely.)

Brushing damp hair from his face, Rommath shed his long robes and lay in bed. The book ﹣ a detailed account of various sorts of troll magicks ﹣ he had intended to continue reading, but he found he had placed it on the table across the room, and he had not the energy nor the will to get back up for it. Instead he stretched out on his cool sheets and tried to uncoil muscles that had been tightly wound since that afternoon. His head felt better with his hair loose, the dull pounding having receded quickly as he’d undressed. 

He missed Netherstorm. 

Rommath blinked. Where had that come from? Netherstorm was cold and windy, its strange purple dust abrasive and everywhere. There had been so much free flowing mana that he could never think clearly, and none of the food was familiar, even the stuff imported by the goblins. He wondered if Telonicus had gotten Tempest Keep running yet. He wondered how Kael was doing without him. 

(He didn’t miss the Netherstorm. Not really. What he really missed was Kael.)

He groaned. Threw an arm over his face. He had thought he and Kael were close, but over the three years of their journey… Sharing tents and bunks and once a narrow cot, sitting close together whispering late into the night, tired yet unable to sleep with all the uncertainty. The Kael he had grown up with had blossomed, had matured into a leader who cared deeply for his people, who was willing to risk everything to see them through the single worst tragedy of all their lives. He knew of no one else who would suffer what Kael had suffered. No one else who had borne his unjust imprisonment at the hands of Modera so nobly, while Rommath himself raged and screamed and threw fire through the bars of their cell. 

Though he had most of his life, it felt strange now to sleep alone. There was no one else in this room to reach out to late at night, when the nightmares came or he couldn’t sleep. There was no gentle snoring in his ear. He and Kael had been given their own beds at the Area 52 inn, but it wasn’t so long ago that they had been camped in Blade’s Edge in tents purchased for far too much gold in the Lower City, listening to the rustling of the Sunfury guards and the strange sounds of alien creatures. He had complained, a lot ﹣ the tent was small, the mountain air was thin, and Kael invaded his space ﹣ but for every night he’d kicked his prince back onto his own blankets, he had enjoyed, for a moment, the closeness and warmth of Kael pressed against him in his sleep. He’d let himself have just that one thing, before wrestling his blankets back and snapping at him to sleep in his own bed. 

And Kael had _kissed_ him, when he’d said he’d return to Silvermoon. After fourteen hundred years, he finally, finally knew the feel of Kael’s lips on his skin. 

_Oh,_ they were soft... 

And Rommath cursed himself, as he had every day since, for not gently tilting his prince’s head down and claiming those lips as his own. For not laying his hand on Kael’s cheek and pulling him close, for not tangling that hand in Kael’s golden hair. If only Kael knew just how Rommath loved him, if he only knew the lengths to which Rommath would go to ensure his happiness. 

(He shouldn’t think like this, he told himself, but a much larger part of his mind wasn’t listening.)

If only Kael knew about the rush of pride and love he felt, watching his prince take charge in ways he never had and had always avoided. How brave and breathtaking Rommath found his devotion to Quel’Thalas, that he would charge headlong into the unknown of the Outland on a prayer whispered by a naga. If only Rommath had _told_ him that. He didn’t know when he’d see Kael again. 

(He would, he decided. He would tell Kael the very next time.)

Kael worried, he knew. About his people. About them. About his actions as Prince of the Sin’dorei. Rommath wanted to kiss all his worries away, _should_ have kissed them away. He should have hauled his prince out of that chair and eaten every fear before they were even spoken, should have wrapped his arms around Kael’s trim waist and pulled him flush against his chest. Kael would never doubt himself again, when Rommath was done with him. 

And Kael would sigh into his mouth, the hand at the back of his neck holding him close as Kael licked into his mouth. He would taste of the strange, glimmering water tinged, as everything in Netherstorm was, with mana, and Rommath could die happy right there, if Kael kissed him like that. 

He would untie the sash of Kael’s robes and yank them from his shoulders. He had seen Kael in little and less over the course of their friendship, but it would be different this time, because Kael would be undressing for _him._ Perhaps Kael would laugh at his eagerness ﹣ in all honesty, he probably would, would make some silly, asinine comment and Rommath would be forced to press their lips together again for silence. 

(It would take very little convincing for him to kiss Kael.)

He would push Kael onto one of the little beds and straddle him, his hard length grinding into Kael’s lap, _showing_ his prince just how badly Rommath wanted him. And Kael would be hard too (and what would that feel that? Was he thick? Long? What would it feel like to take him in hand?), legs spread beneath him, bucking up into him. Rommath would rip off his own robes, wanting his prince to see him, to see the broad, sweeping planes of his bare shoulders and his hardened nipples. (Would he like what he saw? Would he reach out and roll the hardened buds between those slender, talented fingers?) Kael beneath him, hair disheveled (because of _him)_ and pupils blown wide with lust... Rommath groaned at the thought. His hand slipped between his own legs, wrapped around his own length. He was desperately hard and leaking. 

(Would Kael get wet so easily?)

How badly Rommath wanted to kiss the expanse of sun-kissed skin… and he would. He would press his lips feather light to all Kael’s most sensitive places, lick the shell of his ear and nibble at his collar while his prince squirmed beneath him. Would run his nails along his sides, grinning into the soft skin of his stomach at the whine in the back of his prince’s throat. Would bury his nose in the thatch of blonde hair between his legs, inhale deeply before moving along, before settling between those long, beautiful legs and taking Kael in his mouth. (Rommath’s mouth watered.) He would taste heady and musky and the faintest hint of sweet (and this would be a sweet Rommath could stand, would enjoy, the salty-sweet of Kael) and when Rommath swallowed around him, Kael would let out a strangled cry and his hands would be in Rommath’s _hair_ (Rommath shivered), pushing him down for more, more, _more._

(His bit his lip, his hand moving frantically along his erection.)

His legs would turn to jelly as Kael fingered him. They always did. And Kael would use this as an excuse to hold him close, to pepper his face with soft kisses and murmur in his ear. _Louder, louder._ (And oh, he was sure Kael would make him moan.) He would moan Kael’s name as his prince lowered him onto his throbbing cock but not loud enough to cover the pleasured hiss that escaped Kael’s beautiful lips. 

(What Rommath wouldn’t give to be speared on Kael’s cock.)

Kael would be hot and thick and fuck him with abandon, with face coloring under Rommath’s praise, and _more, more, more._ He would take Rommath in hand, his strokes broad and sure, press his thumb to the sensitive spot just under the head ﹣ 

And Rommath shuddered his release into his own hand, his head filled with images of Kael beneath him, thoroughly debauched and Rommath’s name on his lips. 

* * *

He awoke the next morning to a weight on his chest, and found himself face to face with the angry stare of Kim’dal. 

“Good morning,” he mumbled, wincing. She seemed to have put all her weight into her tiny feet, which were planted firmly on his breastbone. “Have you forgiven me?”

In response, the cat tucked her legs under herself and made herself comfortable. Her tail swished irritably and she did not blink. Rommath stared back. 

(It was a power play, he knew, and he would be damned if he lost to a cat.)

In the end, he blinked and Kim’dal, satisfied over her win, seemed to deflate. Her eyes closed, and for a moment she looked like the kitten he’d left behind. He felt a small smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

“That’s a good girl,” he murmured, carefully extracting one hand from his blankets to run through her fur. He’d missed her little warm body hogging his blankets. 

At his touch, however, Kim’dal let out a low growl. Cracking open her eyes to glare at him, she stood, and made sure every single toe jabbed him painfully in the ribs before jumping to the floor. 

Rommath sighed. “I guess we’re not there yet.”

* * *

It was weeks before Rommath felt settled in his new ﹣ old ﹣ role. Despite his avoidance of conflict and non-argumentative nature, Astalor had really done quite a fine job in the interim, though Rommath was sure his friend was relieved to step down and return to his work with the Blood Knight Order. The Lady Liadrin was surely pleased to have him back as well.

The Light of Dawn had been informed of his return, and though Rommath found it wholly unnecessary, she insisted on making the journey from Dalaran to greet him. Very few had been permitted to resume study in the city of mages, and he was sure Kael had only sent the Lady Neeluu back to keep her from returning to Quel’Danas. The isle was still unsafe, and many of its citizens had been offered relocation in the city until the unholy whirlwind that had once been the Sunwell had quieted. Even the Dawnblade had largely moved to the mainland in the time he’d been away. 

Truth be told, Rommath had better things to do than entertain the noblewoman, but she was one of the few friends who had remained when Kael and the Sunfury had left, and a small part of him was eager to see her. 

She arrived with a swish of lavender robes and a gentle smile, and after thanking his assistant politely (she knew the girl by name), declared that his return had decidedly brightened up the place. 

“I wouldn’t say that,” Rommath chuckled. “I’ve heard rumors the staff prefer Astalor.” (And he knew they really did.)

“Well,” conceded Neeluu, “I am pleased that you are home.” She enveloped him in a tight hug, the delicate scent of her perfume not unpleasant to his unfamiliar senses. And while Belo’vir and his informality had been intimidating at best and confusing at worst, there was something comfortable in Neeluu’s. She held on for not long enough to stray to impropriety, but neither was the embrace too short to suggest unfamiliarity, and when she released him and they sat, she did not arrange her skirts attractively as one of her station might, but let them lay as they fell, so that small creases and wrinkles appeared over time. Were it not for her sex, they might have grown as close as he and Kael. Were it not for the emerald still on her finger, he might have forgotten that Kael belonged to her, and not him.

“Tell me of your adventures,” she pressed, blue eyes sparkling. “I want to know everything.” And Rommath laughed.

 _“Everything_ will take quite a long time.”

“I don’t care,” she insisted. “What was the Outland like? Is it truly shattered? Tell me of the people you met, the places you saw.”

From the time they were children, Rommath had often forgotten that Neeluu was younger than he. The way she carried herself around her brother, and the way she was treated by the people of Dawnstar Village, suggested a girl far beyond her years. It was anathema to the behavior of Kael, the tantrums and the explosions, and it was a pity that she was not often included in the activities in which he, Kael, Astalor, and Thalorien indulged. But here, right now, she listened with almost childish wonder as he told her of the blue mushrooms of Zangarmarsh that reached the sky, of fat, two-headed ogres and the mysterious Broken. She gasped at the wonders of the Netherstorm and awed at his description of the crystal fortress that was Tempest Keep and a vain, selfish part of himself basked in her attention, preened at her words of shock and awe. 

“I am happy to be home,” he concluded, “where the sun actually sets and the food is recognizable.”

“I don’t know. I should think the venison sounded delightful.”

“It wasn’t venison. There are no deer in the Outland.”

“But it tasted of venison, did it not? So we shall call it that.”

Rommath rolled his eyes, but there was no annoyance there. “Tell me of Dalaran,” he prompted. “What news?” 

And Neeluu told him. Jaina was doing well in her studies, Antonidas pushing her hard; and Aethas, with whom she had grown friendly, was apprenticed now to the great Rhonin. “They had a falling out,” she said, when he asked about Ansirem Runeweaver, who had taught Aethas first, and she would not elaborate. 

“And you? How are your studies?”

Something flashed over her face, too briefly for Rommath to identify, and then it was gone, and she was smiling again. “Quite well. I should think I shall finish before Jaina, wouldn’t that be a feat?” 

He thought it quite a feat he did not bristle at the mention of Jaina’s name, nor at the fact that she and Neeluu had remained friends in the face of the Alliance’s betrayal. (Kul Tiras was part of that Alliance, were they not? Jaina had betrayed them in her neutrality just as badly as Lordaeron had in their negligence.) In the interest of their own friendship, he did not say so. 

“A grand feat indeed.” He raised his tea to her in a mock toast, and she laughed softly. 

But not all news was good, it seemed. 

“Do you remember your mentor?” Neeluu asked, her own tea untouched though his assistant had brought it some time ago. “The Grand Magistrix?”

“Telestra? Of course.” He would never forget that woman. He owed his career to her careful instruction. “She traveled to Northrend, I recall, on errand for Kael.” One of Kael’s first acts as ruler of Quel’Thalas was to reach out to Telestra. He remembered, from their time as students, a story she had once told them of her friend who was a blue dragon. _The Aspect of Magic is a blue dragon,_ Kael had said. _Perhaps he will have the answers we seek._ “I’ve heard nothing of her,” he mused, eyebrows knitting together. “Perhaps she could not find the dragon.”

Neeluu averted her gaze, shifted uncomfortably. “There are rumors,” she murmured, “in Dalaran.”

“Oh?”

“They say… they say the blue dragonflight knew of our plight before the Grand Magistrix’s arrival. The Aspect of Magic…” She bit her lip. “The Aspect of Magic refuses to intervene.” 

Rommath grew very still. “What does that mean?”

“There are rumors ﹣ you know there have always been rumors ﹣ that the blue dragonflight believes magic does not belong in the hands of mortals. I have heard that the Spellweaver, in retaliation for the Sunwell, wishes to eradicate the world of mages… to reclaim magic for the dragons.” 

Rommath stared at her. Elfkind, from the days of Old Kalimdor and the Well of Eternity, had been _blessed_ with magic! By the blue dragons themselves! 

“What on Azeroth are you talking about?” he hissed. “If we hadn’t destroyed the Sunwell﹣”

“No,” Neeluu interrupted him quietly, but firmly. “Not its destruction. Its creation in the first place.” 

An old, old story came to Rommath’s mind unbidden. An ancient kaldorei account of the founding of Quel’Thalas, secreted away in his father’s private library. The Old Darnassian was difficult and he struggled with its grammar, but it was the only book of magic he had not yet read. The kaldorei had not been fond of Dath’Remar Sunstrider, that much he had always known, but the book referred to his historical journey across the Great Sea as _the exile of the Highborne._ The creation of the Sunwell, long celebrated by the elves as an act of the gods themselves, was not viewed in the same light by the kaldorei. _It was not until later that the Priestesses of the Moon learned of the crime committed by the Highborne on their last night. Dath’Remar Sunstrider, the leader of the heretics, stole the holy waters of the Well of Eternity for himself, creating in the new land a second, bastardized Well to empower the arcane the kaldorei had tried so desperately to erase from the world._

He felt very cold. If the blue dragonflight believed that the Sunwell’s lifegiving waters had been corrupt from the start… 

“And what of Telestra?” he demanded. 

Neeluu fiddled with Kael’s emerald ring. Her voice came in a whisper. “I believe she’s been taken captive.” 

Oh. Oh, no.

They were well and truly fucked. 

(He told himself that Kael could not know. Though everything in him screamed it was betrayal, Kael _could not know._ Telestra had been the closest thing to a mother Kael had ever had, after the death of his own, and he loved her. It was why he had entrusted her with such a dangerous task. During their imprisonment in the dungeons of Dalaran, Telestra had been mad with worry, petitioning the Council of Six and arguing with the guards. Rommath’s gut churned. He hated lying to Kael… but the information would not help him, he told himself. Kael was in Outland, building manaforges and compressing pure mana into crystals for the good of the sin’dorei. If he were to learn of Telestra’s predicament, of the blue dragonflight’s stance, Rommath was not sure what he would do.)

“Thank you,” he said quietly, shaken to his core, “for telling me. I will take care of it.”

Neeluu looked at him in alarm. “How? These are blue dragons!”

Rommath steeled his nerve. “I will take care of it.”

* * *

Rommath’s first decision, after Neeluu had departed, was to finish his tea. And then, he went to the cupboard at the back of the room, removed a bottle containing a heady amber liquid, and drank in great gulps until his eyes watered. 

  
  


He was in a better, though still anxious, mood upon his return home. The book of troll magic waited for him in his bedroom but Rommath found he could not focus. The unfamiliar words swam before his eyes and the strange illustrations made his stomach churn. He set the book down and put his head in his hands. 

He felt, more than heard, the knock at his door, a swift _KNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCK_ that reverberated in his brain. There was little light now coming through his windows ﹣ how long had he sat like that? Frowning, he flicked his hand at the magelight, using its soft glow to make his way across the room to his front door. 

His sister stood there, familiar and comforting in her preferred linen tunic. Her hair had been freshly washed and braided, the gentle smell of sunfruit an interesting though not unwelcome change from the overpowering scent of cheap lye. “I hope you aren’t busy,” she said by way of greeting, and Rommath wanted nothing more than to throw his arms around her and listen to her blather on about the Light and its mysterious workings and its ability to soothe all fears. 

But he didn’t. 

“Come in.” He stood aside to make room for her, and closed the door behind her. He already felt better for being in her presence, and he wasn’t sure whether it was because she was exerting her powers over him or because she was his sister who he trusted implicitly, a gift he granted to few others. She eyed the discarded book, the haphazard manner in which he’d left his shoes, curiously.

“Long day?”

Rommath grunted. “You could say that.” 

How familiar it felt, sitting at his kitchen table with her as they so often had as children. She brewed her own tea, a strong blackroot that Astalor had once pronounced undrinkable, and set two cups before them. 

“I haven’t seen you since you returned home,” she said, stirring a spoonful of milk into her drink. 

“I’ve been very busy,” he deflected. 

“I noticed.”

He pointed with his chin. “You take milk in your tea now? Finally been corrupted by the northerners?” 

A smile played along her lips. “You could say that.” And then, “Where’s your cat?”

Rommath snorted. “She’s angry with me. I hardly see her.”

“I’m angry with you too!” his sister laughed. “You disappeared for three years! What’s a cat supposed to think of that?”

“She still eats the fish I put out for her.”

“Well of course. She’s angry, Rommath, not stupid.”

(Yes, the world seemed a little less dark sitting with his sister. He made a note to try and make more time for her, even if only to soothe his frayed nerves.)

“I don’t enjoy visitors,” he murmured over the rim of his cup. 

“And I don’t enjoy your vanishing act, so here we are.”

“I did apologize. Several times, if I recall.” 

His sister grinned. “Perhaps I just want to hear you say it again.”

“I’m sorry to deprive you of my presence,” he drawled with an eyeroll. “I shall never do it again.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Only as insufferable as you.” 

They drank their tea in companionable silence. Rommath did indeed dislike visitors, but one he could never turn away, even unannounced, was his sister. Not after everything that had happened, not with the uncertainty that they were the only family they had. (No one had been to Tranquillien since the Scourge. It was thought to be a lost town, like so many others in the south.) Rommath would throw out anyone else, but his sister would always be welcome in his home.

“How are your recruits?” he asked. “I approved the request for a dozen more suits of armor for the order today.”

“They’re alright. Some are easier than others,” she admitted, “when they’ve been Farstriders or soldiers. We have a handful from near the Eldrendar, and they’ve never fought anything. One is afraid to truly swing a sword when he trains.” 

“He might make a better priest then.”

Auriel shook her head. “He has the fire,” she said softly. “I think he’ll be alright.” 

“And how are you?” Rommath remembered her struggles, how the fire directed at a wooden target would go out when faced with another elf. How she’d apologize when her sword made contact, rip off her gloves and rush to heal the hurt she’d caused. 

“It’s different, driving a sword through the undead. They don’t feel. They’re not _people_ anymore.” 

“They aren’t alive.”

“Right.” She sipped at her tea. “I remember you told me I should seek Liadrin’s advice, but… she was too consumed by rage and… and _hatred._ It was difficult to talk to her.” Auriel had always been a gentle soul; Rommath doubted she had ever possessed an ounce of hatred at all. “Solanar was a great help,” she told him. “He knew what it was like to slay an enemy. He confided in me the pain he felt, and how it conflicted with his duty and pride at keeping the kingdom safe. That it is a painful burden, to take someone’s life, but when they are trying to take yours ﹣ when they have _invaded_ and you are only protecting what’s precious to you ﹣ the burden is lessened. You are doing what’s _right,_ which is not always what’s _easy.”_

“Fine advice, for a soldier.” And Rommath had always had a low opinion of soldiers, but the words of Solanar Bloodwrath hit a place of great importance in his heart. Destroying the Sunwell had certainly not been easy. It had been unthinkable, a non-option, and then in the moment an impossible task, but if he had not done it ﹣ if he had talked Kael out of it, insisted on another way as he so wanted ﹣ the people of Quel’Thalas would have suffered a fate worse than death. 

“Fine advice for anyone,” his sister concurred. She wrapped both hands ﹣ so small, yet so strong ﹣ around her cup and stared for a moment at the dark brown tea. “Astalor as well has given me great support.”

“Astalor?” He did not fight the grin that curled at the corners of his mouth. “What has he done?” He loved his friend dearly, but the idea of Astalor dispensing the same words as Solanar Bloodwrath was laughable. How would Astalor know what it felt like to purposely cause harm? He had not fought to reclaim the city, as Rommath had. He could not even speak up in an argument. 

His sister was looking at him oddly. He couldn’t name the subtle change that had come over her. “He is wonderful to talk to,” she said. “He listens, and does not judge.”

(And Rommath would protest that he did the same, but he would not lie to his sister. Rommath judged everyone.)

“And what do you talk about?” he teased. “The Light?” 

“Sometimes,” his sister admitted. “He is very interested in its study. I believe he thinks of it as some sort of magical theory, and I have yet to persuade him that it isn’t.” A smile of her own played upon her face. “He even tried to suggest that the Light is merely a branch of the arcane on the walk here.” 

Well, Rommath himself could make that argument, so he could imagine the conversation that had played out between them. But he did not want to get into that sort of debate with his sister. He never won. Rather, he seized upon the latter half of her words.

“Astalor walked you here?” He arched an eyebrow. “I hadn’t realized you needed an escort.”

“I enjoy taking walks with him.” There was a tone to her voice Rommath could not place. “He is great company.”

“If you enjoy endless chatter about his terrible taste in reading material, I’m sure he is.”

“Perhaps I do.” A furrow had grown between her brows. Rommath’s arched into his hairline.

“I hadn’t realized you and he had grown so… close,” he said delicately. 

“A lot can happen in three years. Particularly when one has left to an entirely different planet.”

Rommath narrowed his eyes. She wasn’t saying…? There was no way… Astalor had never told him…!

“What?” 

(And wasn’t that eloquent.)

“I never considered myself anything but a simple priestess, born of and married to the Light.” Her fingers tightened around her tea cup. “After the Scourge, Rommath… Walking the path of the Light has been so difficult. How could something like that happen to us? Why were we punished so? The blood knights… _Astalor,_ helped me to understand. Helped me keep my faith. So many of my brothers and sisters have lost theirs. But Astalor…” She inhaled, then let it go. “When so many of my brothers and sisters gave up, Astalor did not. He encouraged me to hold on to that soft, tender part of myself I thought I was losing. He did not think it futile to try and heal the Wretched, to sing to the dying, to use all my energy on the sick and the elderly. He could not heal with me, but many times, the long nights by myself, he would greet me in the mornings with a smile and tea. And I would feel better, for having someone believe in me, in what I was doing. I felt stronger for it.” The smile ghosted back over her lips. “I greatly admire him, Rommath.” 

Rommath felt his brain shut off. 

“I would say I more than admire him, if I’m honest with you.”

What. _What._ His sister, the pillar to which so many clung, _admired_ someone like Astalor? Astalor Bloodsworn? His strong, confident sister, who always spoke her mind and had faced down brawling sailors without flinching, _admired_ his best friend? The same Astalor who despaired over Kael’s bullying and never spoke a word in his own defense? The same Astalor who worried himself into a panic over the small, inane details like threading on his robes or the formation of a letter’s wax seal? The same Astalor who presided over her order and refused to lift a sword??

(And oh, he loved his dear friend but… never in any world would he think the man suited for a woman like his sister.)

“Wh ﹣ how ﹣ _Astalor?”_ He gaped at her.

“Astalor.” The look on his sister’s face was familiar, the same look he and all their brothers had been on the receiving end of many times in their childhood. If he carried on, she would smack him. 

Rommath fumbled for words. 

“Does he know?” he blurted, intelligently. 

“I should hope so,” Auriel replied, “as he kissed me before we parted.” 

(Rommath blanched. He didn’t want to think of his sister kissing anyone, let alone _Astalor.)_

“The Light﹣”

“Is still there,” she assured him. “I am still its child and holy servant. But I am a woman too.”

(Rommath’s brain wasn’t working. He didn’t know what to say. His first, kneejerk reaction was that Auriel was playing some sort of joke on him, except that Auriel had never played a joke in anyone in her entire life, and he wasn’t sure she even knew how. His second, more insistent gut reaction was to find Astalor and demand, very eloquently, _What the fuck,_ and take it from there.)

“I see,” he said finally. “Right. I see.” 

(And it wasn’t that Rommath necessarily even _objected_. Astalor was one of the most eligible bachelors in Quel’Thalas, a learned and good and kind man. A brother in name if not in blood, and he should, politically speaking, be pleased that his sister wanted him. But they were two wholly different people, and could Astalor really make her happy? Could she make him happy?)

“Are you…” He felt there was a script he should be reading from, but the words were in another language and smudged besides. “Is it… _serious?”_

He could not ask, could not make his mouth form the words _Is he courting you?_ This was a conversation she should be having with their father ﹣ this was a conversation _Astalor_ should be having with their father. 

(Except their father may not be alive anymore.)

Auriel, wound tight inside, began to visibly relax. Her face softened, and there was affection in her voice that with a start Rommath realized had been there all along. “I believe so,” she murmured. “I’m not sure how these things go, really. But, I think so.”

“I see.” Rommath had never longed for his father’s presence more than he did now. What was he supposed to do? What would his father do? 

Demand Astalor show his face and state his intentions point blank, most likely. Should Rommath do that? 

(He wanted very much to bang his head a few times on the table.)

“And is he…” Again, he fumbled for words. If Auriel were a man this would not be so difficult, he didn’t think. Or if he were a woman. But he had never spoken of relationships or attractions to his sister, or to anyone at all really. What would _Kael_ say, if she were _his_ sister?

“Does he treat you well?” he asked thickly. Yes. That would be Kael’s first concern, if Auriel were his sister.

And perhaps if they were speaking of something else, Auriel would have teased him, the sarcasm in which they were so fluent coming out in force. _Of course not,_ she would say, _everything is awful._ But though she hid it behind her steaming tea, she was just as nervous as her brother, this conversation territory neither thought they would ever tread. The knuckles of the hand clutching her cup had gone white with anxiety. 

“Yes,” she breathed. “I feel… it feels too much, the way he treats me, when others experience so much less. He is considerate and kind, and respects what I have to say.” 

Rommath nodded automatically. That sounded like the Astalor he knew, a stitch of familiarity in an otherwise unfamiliar tapestry. Astalor had not a malicious bone in his body. He would not treat anyone, much less Auriel, with anything less than the dignity and grace that they deserved. 

“I see,” he repeated. It seemed to be the only coherent thought in his brain. _I see, I see._ He didn’t see, not really. But after Neeluu’s visit and the rumors of Telestra and the blue dragonflight, he didn’t think he had the energy required to see more than the half empty teacup before him. 

His sister reached out a hand, closed the chasm between them, and laid it on his own. She felt warm. “I understand this was unexpected, and perhaps even shocking. It was to me at first as well. But I wanted to tell you, because you are my brother and I have no secrets from you. And this… _Astalor,_ is important to me.” 

He only just stopped the _I see_ bursting from his lips once more. He wasn’t sure it meant anything anyway. Rommath covered her hand with his free one and squeezed. “Thank you for telling me,” he said, for the second time that day. “I’m sure you were worried what I would think.”

Auriel laughed, a soft, nervous little sound. “Astalor was more worried than I was. I would have just thumped you if you’d reacted poorly.”

Astalor would never thump him. “Of course. The time honored method of negotiation between sister and brother.”

“It’s never failed me before.” 

And Rommath rolled his eyes. “It’s late, and you should head home. I’ll walk you.”

“I’m perfectly capable of walking myself.” And whether she truly was, or Astalor was waiting with baited breath, Rommath didn’t know, but he knew better than to argue. 

“I suppose I’ll have to speak to him.” The thought made him uneasy. 

“Yes.” Her eyes bore into his. “Be nice.”

He snorted inelegantly. “I’m always nice.”

It was Auriel’s turn to roll her eyes. “I’ve heard stories,” she warned. “I’m not afraid to hit you in front of all of Silvermoon herself.” 

He knew she wasn’t. He may be the Grand Magister, but his sister would always be able to cow him. It was his greatest secret.

“I know.” 

* * *

Rommath couldn’t sleep. He wasn’t sure of the time, just that it was dark and very late. He’d given up some time ago, laying there in the dark. He was comfortable but too many thoughts crowded his mind, all clamoring for attention. Telestra, the blue dragonflight, his sister, Astalor, Neeluu, Kael…

(Kael would laugh himself silly, when Rommath told him about Astalor. Would insist he’d seen it coming, even though no one could have.)

He found himself replaying those few memories of Auriel and Astalor together. When had this started? When she was at Sunsail? Before he’d left or after? _How_ had it started? He didn’t think Astalor the type to sweep a woman off her feet like Kael, nor the type to propose a casual sexual relationship of the sort Rommath had previously enjoyed.

(He stopped that train of thought quickly. He did not want to think of _his sister_ like that.)

Telestra. That was a safer, less gut-churning thought. Telestra stranded in Northrend, a captive of the blue dragonflight. Kael, insane with worry should he learn…

No. Rommath couldn’t think of that either. 

He felt the dip in his mattress long before he saw the dark shape of Kim’dal padding toward him. She placed each foot carefully, as though afraid they would not make landfall. He supposed she was still uncertain he was really there. 

He let her come to him, close enough to see the glow of her eyes in the thin moonlight falling from his window. “Hello, pretty girl,” he murmured. He placed a hand between them, palm up, and Kim’dal froze. 

“It’s alright,” he crooned. “I’m back now.” He stayed very still. “I won’t leave you again.” 

(He might be lying to her or he might not. Kael had not told him when he would be returning, if he even was. She could not fault him for the unknown.)

“Can’t you sleep either?” he asked her. Kim’dal stared at him, and then at his outstretched hand. The black shadow of her tail swished. 

“Did you know? About Astalor and my sister?” Of course she did, if he had bothered to look. He hadn’t checked the enchantment on any of the cats since his return, too busy with catching up and implementing crystal distribution. If he had bothered to look, he would have found out long before tonight. 

(Or maybe if he had paid attention, when the two were together with him. Maybe he would have noticed something more.)

The cat hesitated a long moment, clearly torn between abandoning him and staying. Rommath didn’t push her. Cats, he’d learned, always did the opposite of what one wanted them to, if forced. He wanted to bury his face in her long, soft fur and forget the last twenty-four hours had happened, but if he did that, he didn’t know when she would come back to him again. 

Strange, he thought mildly, that he could be so patient with the cats and yet have none for people.

After what seemed like hours, once the cramp had set deep into his shoulder and the muscle screamed with pain, Kim’dal lowered her head into his palm and rubbed. Scritched her cheeks against his fingertips. Purred. 

“Hey there, soft girl. That was nice of you.” 

Kim’dal purred her agreement ﹣ it _was_ nice of her, she knew. She rubbed her face against his fingers, allowed the smallest of scritches behind her ears, before flopping down against him, purring loudly. Rommath smiled to himself. He didn’t think she had done this in the few weeks he’d been home, and certainly not when he was awake. Carefully, so as not to irritate her and cause her to leave, he repositioned his arm until the burn in his shoulder faded to pins and needles. He still couldn’t sleep, but at least he had some company for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again, Talyn_Drake, for letting me bounce ideas off you, and I hope you enjoyed the bit of smut. :P
> 
> Let me know what you think! Leave a comment below, I thrive off them!


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Astalor and Rommath talk over cake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not edited at all, I am so sorry.

The anniversary of the Sunwell’s rebirth was fast approaching, and Rommath found himself more and more occupied with coordinating the celebrations than with his actual duties to the Sanctum. Lor’themar wanted to simultaneously mourn the lives lost in the tragedy of Quel’Thalas and Rommath could not seem to convince him that one could not mourn and celebrate at the same time. 

“Nonsense.” Lor’themar waved his protests away dismissively. “Remembering how far we have come makes this moment all the sweeter.” Rommath pinched at the bridge of his nose. Dealing with Lor’themar these days always gave him a headache. 

(And Lor’themar wanted to invite _the draenei_ to the celebrations, to once again thank Velen for his assistance. Rommath could only imagine the sort of nightmare this would cause for security.)

“Grand Magister?” The voice of his apprentice cut through his irritation, and he tried his best not to direct his anger at her. 

“What.” He scowled at the list before him. An emissary must be sent to the Exodar to personally deliver an invitation to the draenei leader, and security talks must be had with both Halduron and Liadrin. The Horde ambassadors must be briefed as to the importance of the occasion, and there was the _gold_ behind it all to consider as well. The treasury was not limitless, and Rommath and Lor’themar had been in agreement that they should not spend lavishly. But there were still caterers to pay, the Enchanter’s Guild, the additional guards, and the magisters and musicians and other sorts who had agreed to provide entertainment. Astalor had donated a considerable amount from the Bloodsworn estate as a sponsor, and a thick envelope bearing the purple seal of the Kirin Tor sat at the corner of his desk, glaring ominously. Rommath could only imagine what they wanted. 

“The Warden Neeluu is here to see you. I told her you had precious little time to spare, but…” His assistant bit her lip. Even now, after the death of the monarchy, Neeluu occupied a terribly odd position. While she still, technically, had no real political power, and was outranked by the likes of Lor’themar and even Halduron, the fact remained that her office predated them all, and her continued displays of support as well as the undeniable fact that she was one of the few familiar faces left to the people made her difficult to ignore. 

There was also the small matter of his own… _feelings_ to consider, that made her much more difficult to put aside for his actual job.

(There were no feelings, he told himself, as he had Erindae show her in. He was far too busy for _feelings.)_

“Good afternoon, Magister Rommath.” Neeluu swept in, accompanied by two Dawnblades, and Rommath felt his mood lift.

(It was probably unrelated.)

“My Lady.” He rose from his desk, grateful for the excuse, however thin, to break from the papers and budgets and emissary requests. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?” In times of stress, Rommath found himself retreating into the familiar cocoon of formality. It was so much easier to handle all of this as the Grand Magister, and not as Rommath. Rommath was only a man, afflicted with emotions and indecisions and anxieties; but the Grand Magister was an institution, an immovable force in the chaos of the city.

If Neeluu found it odd, she did not make mention. “I wish to entrust a ceremonial artifact to you until the anniversary. It will be safer nowhere else.” She motioned to a Dawnblade who stepped forward, and with a little bow produced a small ornate box.

“We have _ceremonial artifacts_ now?” Rommath couldn’t keep the note of amusement from his voice. 

“Lor’themar wanted to start a tradition,” Neeluu explained, “and I felt this would be well appreciated.” She flipped the latches on the box, which snapped open in a spark of arcane _pings,_ and carefully, reverently, revealed its contents. Nestled inside on a plush red pillow lay a flame encased in enchanted glass. It danced before them, casting a soft yellow glow, and there came a hiss of surprise that belatedly Rommath realized had come from him. 

“Is this…?”

“From the Sunwell.” Neeluu’s voice was soft, in awe of the tiny flame. 

“How?” The Sunwell was Light and _water,_ lapping gently at its shores within the Sanctum ﹣ it was a _well,_ not… this.

And her eyes twinkled. She pressed her lips together in a pleased little smile. “That, my friend, shall remain my secret.” The Light made him feel warm, at ease, made him relax and pulled the stress from his bones. 

The Sunwell was _fire,_ he thought, holy fire, curling deep in his gut and radiating its healing energies in a way it never had before. Never had he felt so connected to his element, to the elves who had come before him, to Quel’Thalas herself, as he did gazing into that flame. Rommath felt, for just a moment, that he could reach into the holy fire and touch the souls it had touched before him. For just the briefest, barest moment, he lost himself in its light, one elf among many; and there with him was Capernian, her dark eyes ablaze as she successfully created the first portal from Tempest Keep; and Telonicus, chest puffed out with pride as he and Pathaleon christened the first manaforge. The flame showed him his sister, bathed in all that was righteous and just, her hands joined to Astalor’s under the canopy of orange leaves; and Vor’na, healthy and smug as she clinked her glass with Belo’vir’s in toast. 

He saw Nallorath, his face soft and unlined in morning light; and his brothers, Merhean with his curly mop and the set of Sorrem’s jaw as he thrust the envelope with news of his government appointment at his older brother. He saw his mother and her gentle hands worrying the frayed edge of her collar, his father’s serious face and perpetual scowl. He saw Thalorien roughhousing with his Dawnblade guards, and there, alive and merry and grinning shamelessly, Rommath saw Kael… Precious and sane and _safe_ within the Light, Rommath saw them all, and it was a long moment before he was able to pull himself back to his office, back to Neeluu and her guards and the flickering little flame in its delicate enchanted glass. 

His chest felt tight. 

Neeluu was speaking to him, gentle and unassuming, a grounding presence against this strange, not unpleasant out of body experience. He only half heard her, and with a heavy reluctance he tore his eyes away from the reliquary of holy fire to focus once more on his old friend’s face. 

“My apologies,” he murmured. “What was the question?”

* * *

_Dear Astalor,_

_I hope this letter finds you well, and that you are not dwelling too much on what is past during this most joyous remembrance. I am sorry I can not be there to celebrate the return of our Sunwell, but I think you will understand. I have sent a small donation for the events to the Grand Magister, and I ask that you do me this favor and be sure he receives it. I am not sure if he will open it once he sees the Kirin Tor seal._

_I am settling back into Dalaranian life wondrously. Jaina has been most kind, and I feel so much more useful now that I am living and working in the city. The other members of the Six are more willing to listen to one they see as having Dalaranian interests at heart, though I do find myself reminding them, more than once, that I am a son of Quel’Thalas before I am a mage. Perhaps, in time, they can be convinced to look toward Silvermoon and extend the olive branch. I am trusting you to keep our old friend’s temper in check on that day._

_I realize I have not made a case for myself in this letter, and I can sense your disapproval. I know you understand my reasons for leaving Silvermoon and perhaps you argued for my right, and the fact that I have spoken of Rommath as much as I had before does not speak of healing or bettering myself, but I assure you I am. I cannot divulge details to you as yet, my friend, but I promise to soon. I have several reasons for keeping my privacy, but I do not believe you would fault me for them. I assure you that I am happier than I have been in all my life._

_Do not be too harsh on yourself, Astalor. It was not your fault what happened one year ago, and no one could have predicted our own crown prince bringing the Legion to our door. You did all you could, and Auriel would be proud of how you have conducted yourself in the days since. You know what I write is true._

_Try and enjoy the festivities, my friend, and enjoy the cake I have sent with this letter. It was not easy to find the ingredients here in Dalaran, and I received more than a few stares for the bloodroot, but I hope this small gift will serve to remind you of all the good in your life, and all the good you’ve done._

_I will write again soon, and perhaps then I shall be able to put an answer to your questions._

_As always,_

_Aethas_

For the briefest moment, Aethas considered using the purple sealing wax of the Kirin Tor. But no. He needed no titles, no formalities with Astalor. He reached for the black of House Sunreaver and pressed his signet ring into it with little ceremony. Slipped the envelope beneath the twine of the cake box, and hoped the confection would have the intended effect. Astalor had always tended towards the morose. 

He did not jump at the footsteps, though perhaps he should have. He hadn’t heard the visitor announce themselves, but Aethas found he could not be cross at the warm weight draped across his shoulders. 

“Still awake?” Arator’s voice was soft in his ear and Aethas felt a quiet affection worm its way into his chest. He grasped the paladin’s wrist loosely, moved his hand down to thread their fingers together. 

“I wanted to finish a letter.” 

“Your friend Astalor?”

“Mm.”

Arathor rested his chin atop Aethas’s head, and when he spoke, Aethas felt the words reverberate down his spine. “Are you sure you don’t want to go? My aunt would surely not object if you asked to tag along.”

Aethas chuckled. “Your aunt dislikes me.” And Arator pulled him close, burying his face in Aethas’s fiery hair.

“My aunt dislikes the _idea_ of you,” he disagreed. “I’m sure she will come around.”

“Yeah?” Aethas closed his eyes, listening to the paladin’s soft breathing.

“Yes.” 

He reached up, cupped the back of the other man’s head. Tilted his own and was rewarded with a gentle, chaste kiss. “Are you staying the night?” he murmured against Arator’s lips. He felt them curl into a soft smile.

“Do you want me to?” 

“I always want you to.” Aethas kissed him again. Vereesa, perhaps, would be angered that her nephew had not returned home, but Aethas found her anger bothered him less these days. A great many things bothered him less now that he had settled back in the city of mages. He no longer fell into bed at the end of a long day, exhausted from the two portals and hours of paperwork and arguments. He wasn’t on edge anymore, as he had been in the city of his birth, Rommath inescapable and everywhere. He didn’t snap at Arator anymore, when he was overtired, didn’t feel the pangs of guilt as the paladin bore his frustrations with grace. 

In truth, Aethas had expected Rommath to put up more of a fight when he asked to move to Dalaran. Rommath had never been a friend of humans, and had become almost hostile towards the Kirin Tor in the wake of the Scourge. (Aethas still remembered the horrible, terrifying look in his eyes in the Dalaranian dungeons, the threats to burn the city back to the ground.) Aethas had been prepared to argue, to point out the hypocrisy in Rommath disallowing him to leave when Rommath himself had fled Dalaran because of Kael’thas. It was only by their strong, shared friendship with Astalor that Rommath had permitted Aethas to work in Dalaran at all. 

But Rommath had said yes. Yes to Jaina’s offer and the fully furnished apartments in the Violet Citadel, yes to Aethas seeking to overcome his demons. Astalor had suggested he use his new position to argue in favor of the sin’dorei, but Aethas didn’t think the idea had even crossed Rommath’s mind. Rommath knew what he had done to him, and letting him go was the closest to an apology he would get from the man. 

And Aethas wasn’t running, as Rommath had been. Wasn’t hiding, pained and alone, in his new-old city. Rommath had left Dalaran to forget Kael’thas, to force his unrequited feelings deep inside him, but Aethas had come back to _heal._ He didn’t want Rommath anymore and hadn’t in a long time, but the constant, aching reminder of the man had made it nigh impossible to move on. He remembered, not so long ago, holing himself up in the Legerdemain Lounge, nursing a glass of sweet snowplum brandy and putting off the inevitable portal back to Silvermoon, and the hand that had bumped his own as he’d reached for his coin purse, a hand that belonged to a dashing man dressed in comfortable black silks. _Allow me,_ he’d said. _You seem like you need it._ He’d allowed Arator to pay for his drink, and the one after, and it didn’t quite click until after the man had left that Aethas realized he had had _met_ him before, long ago. He’d been dressed in armor then, channeling the Light into the mages who’d exhausted themselves lifting Dalaran into the sky. He’d healed Aethas, way back when, returning the strength to his weakened body and invigorating his spirit. 

_I remember that,_ Arator had told him, cozied together at a table to the far side of the Lounge. _I remember you._

“Come to bed with me,” Aethas pressed, fingers tangling in the paladin’s long hair. It was coming undone after his long day, the braid sloppy and slipping from its tie. Arator hummed softly, eyes closed.

“Anything you want,” he breathed, pulling Aethas from his chair. “Anything at all.”

* * *

Astalor hadn’t expected the letter, nor the little box stamped with the name of a Dalaranian bakery. Aethas, as usual, delighted in sprinkling little hints of his life without actually revealing anything, and if Astalor hadn’t been dealing with his friend’s mental war between secrecy and openness for as long as he had, he would be sorely tempted to immediately pen a reply demanding a proper report of his new life. 

He slipped the twine from the box with care ﹣ he could find another use for it later ﹣ and slowly peeled the flaps apart. The familiar scent of confectioner’s sugar assaulted his nose, mixed with something deep and earthy he couldn’t quite place. The cake wasn’t much, all things considered. Astalor could cut it into four pieces if he were stingy with the knife. But it triggered something in the back of his mind, and he stood staring at it, trying to remember, until he was jolted from his thinking by the call of his name at the cottage door. 

“Come in!” he called back, and was not at all surprised to see Rommath, who in all honesty he had expected much sooner. It wasn’t only the anniversary of the Sunwell’s restoration that was lingering on the horizon. 

“Celebrating early?” Rommath quipped, eyeing the cake box. He could not see the bakery’s name, but he recognized the style of packaging. He’d seen it often enough, back in Dalaran. 

“Why not?” With a flick of his hand, two dishes settled themselves on the table, followed by forks and a serving knife, floating handle first. “Would you like some?”

Rommath wrinkled his nose. “I don’t like cake.” But he took the proffered piece nonetheless. There was something familiar about it, and he was intrigued. At the first bite, he understood why. The cake, of course, was soft and spongey and nothing especially to boast about, but the frosting… Beneath the currant and sugar was the heartachingly familiar taste of bloodroot, the sweet paste that his childhood cook had baked into pastries and smeared on cakes. The sugar mollified its more savory aspects, bringing to the forefront the candied punch it’d had when he was young, and the gentle, almost plain flavor of the cake kept it from overwhelming his senses, kept it from being too much. He remembered this cake, the balancing of Astalor’s sweet tooth with Auriel’s harsh palate. He remembered the feeling of _home,_ despite the sugar, and the delight in his sister’s eyes. 

It was the same cake that had been served at Astalor’s wedding. 

“Oh!” His friend had clearly come to the realization at the same time, fork still in his mouth and eyes wide. The look on his face made Rommath’s heart ache. (He told himself he would _not_ cry over cake.)

Astalor exhaled and set down his fork. He looked very much like he would cry over cake. 

“Did you know,” Rommath said quietly, “when we were children, once our cook made an entire bowl” and here he spread his arms to show the size “of bloodroot paste? It was for a party our parents were hosting, before our brothers were born.” Or perhaps Merhean had still been a baby, he thought, too young to participate in mischief. “Auriel and I snuck into the kitchen the night before and ate it all.” He grinned at the memory. “We ate ourselves sick, and our cook thought the stomachache was a better punishment than telling our father.” 

(Until they’d tasted northern sugar, Rommath had considered himself and his sister possessing a considerable sweet tooth. Bloodroot paste, especially when hidden inside other nondescript bread, had been a favored treat. It had been his idea, looking back, to have “just a taste” from the bowl, but once they had started they found they could not stop.)

And Astalor, temporarily distracted from the surprise of grief, chuckled. “I find it hard to believe Auriel was that selfish.”

“Oh, she was.” Rommath chuckled himself. “She licked the bowl clean.” And Astalor wrinkled his nose.

“She would never.”

“She did.” He remembered their cook’s anger at having to rush out at the last minute and buy bloodroot paste, at having to use storebought over homemade, and how his face had softened, just a little, at seeing the two of them clutch their little bellies and wail. Cook had not made sweets for a long time after, and it had been _worth_ it. 

Astalor was grinning. “I suppose that was the incident that had her forsake all material wants,” he teased.

“Oh, no. She once threw a fit when Mother would not allow her to have a new dress made.”

“No!”

Rommath grinned. “She was very different, before our brothers were born. We both were.” He had always been the oldest, always been the responsible one, but it hadn’t been until the birth of Merhean, and later Sorrem, that they had started to mature. They had been separated from their younger brothers by age, a larger age gap than most siblings. Rommath had discovered his affinity for magic before Merhean was born, and Auriel her gift of the Light, and by the time Sorrem had graced the cradle, it had been Auriel healing the childhood bruises of a toddling Merhean, Rommath corralling him away from their father’s study. He remembered the feeling of shock, when their mother had sat them down and told them she was pregnant. They had not expected to receive more siblings. They’d thought they were too old. 

(Rommath pushed the memories away. He hadn’t thought of his brothers in a long time.)

“It sounds fun to have had siblings,” Astalor mused, and Rommath nodded absent-mindedly. Sometimes it had been. 

They returned to their cake. It was nice, to just sit with his friend away from the city, away from the stress of the Sunwell remembrance and the blathering of Kath’mar and Halduron. It was nice, for a moment, to forget the anniversary of the tragedy. 

“Astalor,” he said after a long moment, when the cake had been eaten and tea poured. His cup steamed gently before him but he did not drink. “May I ask you something?”

His friend looked at him curiously. “Of course.” 

And Rommath knew the question was stupid. It had only been a year since his sister’s death, and surely Astalor had not moved on. He would not have sequestered himself away on Quel’Danas, would not visit her grave at the end of every day, if he had moved on. He wished for a moment that he shared Auriel’s talent for difficult conversations, the gentle way in which she could ease into them. “Will you never remarry?”

And if Astalor was offended by his bluntness, it didn’t show. Astalor knew him well enough by now. He placed his teacup on its saucer, folded his hands. “No,” he answered softly. 

And Rommath had known the answer but he’d had to ask anyway. “Why?” He didn’t understand. Elves were not humans. They lived for far longer, and Astalor still yet had half his life ahead of him. How could he be content at another thousand years alone? How could only eight years have been enough? “Do not hold back for my sake,” he said quickly. “I wish to see you happy.” 

A soft, sad smile tugged at the corner of his oldest friend’s mouth. “If there is anything Auriel has taught me, it is to do things for myself. I would marry again whether you approved or not.” 

_When did Astalor become so bold?_ _When did he start thinking for himself?_ It wasn’t so long ago that he allowed Kael to ply him with liquor until he was sick, despite the fact that he did not even like drinking. 

“If I met a woman who made me feel as Auriel did, I would marry her without hesitation.” His friend tipped his head, and his eyes had gone glassy. “But I don’t think I will. There will only ever be one Auriel.”

(It was not so long ago that he and Astalor had lain on the floor of Kael’s apartments, hungover and tired, and Astalor had confessed he’d prefer an arranged marriage to being alone.)

“But why…” Rommath groped for words. He had never been any good at feelings. “Why would you suffer the rest of your life alone, when you know what you could have?”

And Astalor looked at him very seriously, and when he spoke, he pronounced each word carefully, as if trying to impart some great wisdom. “I would not suffer, Rommath. It is _because_ of my marriage that I am content to live just as I am until my death. I married my _arifal alore._ I will never find another who makes me happy because I have already found my soulmate. I am not lonely, because I found her.” 

_Arifal alore._ Hadn’t Rommath once wanted to be that to Kael? Hadn’t he once thought that Kael was his soulmate? His cherished sun, the love of his life. 

(But if Kael really was his soulmate, why did he feel alone? Why did he want _more?)_

“I would give anything for even one more day with her,” Astalor said, voice a little tighter, “but I can wait. It’s not a burden. I know she will be waiting for me when I cross into the Shadowlands, as I would wait for her. We will be reunited there, and never again be parted. There is no one in this world or any other I would love as I love her.” 

“You really did have a romance straight from the epics,” Rommath murmured, recalling something he had said long ago, and at this, Astalor’s eyes reddened, and he sniffled.

Rommath had forgotten, when he’d first said those words, that all the greatest epics were tragedies. 

He sighed. “Astalor, I need to confess.”

He didn’t know why, in that moment, he opened himself up to his dearest friend. He didn’t know what compelled him, what drove him to lay bare all that he had been keeping inside for fourteen hundred years. He supposed, if he really thought about it, that he always could have talked to Astalor. Astalor had never betrayed his confidences, had never judged or made fun. In this as in all things, Astalor listened. He sipped his tea and touched at the ring hanging around his neck, but his eyes were clear and focused, and he did not interrupt, not even when Rommath felt he had talked himself hoarse. 

He told Astalor of his confusion, of Neeluu’s kiss and _be careful when you go to Deatholme_ and the morning on the veranda. Of the anger that sparked inside when she wore the emerald parure from Kael, and the relief he’d felt when she’d seemed to finally put it away. Of how he’d been so desperate for Kael to forget Jaina Proudmoore that he’d all but sold Neeluu to him, and the regret and uneasiness he’d felt every day since. 

He told Astalor about Kael, and Astalor listened intently, elegant eyebrows quirked as the word vomit overcame him. About that first day in the Small Court and how Rommath’s breath had caught at their prince’s mastery of arcane spells he hadn’t yet been taught, how his hair shone nearly silver in the sun and at the first angry words from his beautiful mouth Rommath had been smitten. Even as Kael had screamed for Astalor and made it abundantly clear he was not wanted, Rommath had watched the furrow between his brows and the shape of his lips and felt his stomach tie itself in knots. 

He told Astalor of the agony he’d felt watching their prince flirt, of the disgust and shame at listening to Kael describe the endless parade of women he’d bedded. How Jaina Proudmoore infuriated him, and made him feel truly _inferior_ for the first time in his life, because what did that human child possess that Rommath himself did not. Astalor silently heated his untouched tea as Rommath confided that he’d fled not Dalaran but Kael, escaped the conflicting embraces and confusing drunken words, how he could not stand to see Kael betrothed yet yearning for another when Rommath was right there, had been there since they were children. 

Astalor said nothing as Nallorath’s name caught in Rommath’s throat, and how even now, separated from their prince by the impenetrable veil of death, Rommath could not admit, did not even _know_ if he’d felt for the man as Nallorath felt for him. How Nallorath had promised him love and a life and _happiness,_ and all Rommath could see was Kael. How the heartbreak he’d suffered at Nall’s death had less to do with him being gone than with his own guilt at never loving him back. The confession left him unsteady, and he accepted his warm teacup eagerly, grateful for something, anything in that moment to hold on to. He had never spoken of Nall to anyone. 

There were dreams and nightmares every night, and he could not adjust to taking a single step without accounting for Kael beside him. He told Astalor of the numerous trips to Kael’s grave, of the shouting and sobbing and _anger_ he’d unleashed at the little plot of dirt until he was too exhausted to return to his own home, until he’d sat there on the grass and glared out across the sea and _pleaded_ with the spirit of Kael to say something, say _anything._ He told Astalor of the regret he felt, never telling Kael he loved him, because even if he hadn’t felt the same, even if he’d rejected him, at least Kael would have _known._ He would have known and perhaps not felt so alone and abandoned and been the perfect target for Kil’jaedan to sink his terrible, fel-soaked claws into. 

Rommath didn’t know when he’d started and didn’t know it was happening until Astalor was pressing a soft handkerchief into his hands. He was crying, he realized, crying like he had the day he’d buried Kael, and the vortex of emotions swirling in his chest threatened to rip him apart. 

Astalor took it all in, and was perhaps shaken himself by the magnitude of his friend’s words, but never did he falter. He had never seen Rommath cry ﹣ indeed, who had, besides his sister and Kael? ﹣ and wasn’t sure if the man would allow him an embrace. They had never touched in anything more than a formal capacity, and the last time Astalor had hugged him had been upon his return from Outland, but he couldn’t sit there and do _nothing_ as Rommath cried. Even Aethas he had held as he’d raged and sobbed, no matter how difficult that sometimes became. Gently, he placed a hand on Rommath’s arm, and though he was no priest, and he was not the Light’s chosen, Rommath calmed a bit under Astalor’s hand, as he once had under his sister’s. 

No one spoke again for a long time. Rommath wasn’t sure how long they’d sat, how long he’d gone on. He wasn’t sure what he’d come here for in the first place. It certainly wasn’t to sob like a child in his kitchen. He took great, shuddering breaths. Blew his nose. Swiped furiously at his eyes until the tears were gone. And only then did Astalor speak.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, “that you’ve had to go through this alone. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.” Rommath shook his head, the words clumsy and thick on his tongue.

“I never let you. I never let anyone.”

“Not even Auriel?”

“Not even her.” 

The weight of that statement settled between them, and things suddenly came together in Astalor’s mind. Auriel had said once that she believed her brother to be carrying a terrible burden, a great sadness within his heart that she feared one day would consume him. Astalor understood then what she’d meant, and cursed himself for not having seen it himself. 

Rommath sniffled again, and took a gulp of tea. He didn’t notice the burn on his tongue. 

“I think,” his friend said slowly, “that you have loved Kael for so long you are afraid to stop. I think that loving him has become such a part of you that you do not know _how_ to stop, or who you are without him.” 

(If Astalor was surprised at his confession, he hid it well. If Astalor felt anything at all on the subject, he did not say.)

“Before Kael, I was only a boy from Tranquillien. I’m not a boy anymore.” 

“No,” Astalor agreed gently, “you’re not. You’re Rommath, the Grand Magister of Silvermoon. You’re _Rommath.”_

“I don’t know who Rommath is,” he snorted. 

“I do.” When Rommath finally picked up his head, his friend continued. “You are my friend. You are loyal, and humble, and discreet. You speak your mind and the truth without regard to sparing the feelings of whomever is listening. You value hard work and discipline, and would rather take on more than you’re capable than dare suggest you need help.”

“That’s not… Those aren’t…” But Astalor fixed him with a stern eye.

“You are kind, to those who need it,” he went on. “You love cats and undrinkable coffee and magic.” He squeezed Rommath’s arm gently. “You are always horribly, disgusting busy but always manage to create more hours in the day to get it all done. You always make time for those matter, and those who don’t matter aren’t worth it. You love deeply, and you think it a weakness because you have never received the same love in return. You miss your family, and your hometown, and no matter how often you hear it wasn’t your fault, you shoulder the guilt nonetheless. Rommath, I have _never_ met anyone in my life as self-sacrificing as you. Even Auriel was selfish sometimes. Even she could admit her own wants.” 

What _did_ he want? 

(He wanted his sister back. He wanted Kael and Nall and Vor’na and Capernian and Telonicus and even Jaina fucking Proudmoore back. He wanted to go back to Dalaran, when things were simple. When they were all young and stupid and his biggest concern was making sure Kael actually showed up to class.)

“I don’t want to be alone,” he mumbled. The difference, he thought, between himself and Astalor was that Astalor was content. He had met the love of his life, who loved him back, who without a doubt was the love from all the classics, the great _arifal alore_ he had always wanted. Despite the short time they’d had, he had met his soulmate, and no one else would ever stand against that. No one else ever could. 

(When had Astalor become so confident? So sure of himself and his life? Why hadn’t Rommath noticed?)

He didn’t want to be alone, but he didn’t want someone just to fill the gaping hole within. With a start, he realized: Wasn’t that what he’d always done? Capernian and all those who’d come before her (and even, he thought as his heart clenched painfully, Nall) ﹣ wasn’t that what they were? Just someone to pass the time as he pined hopelessly for Kael? 

Was he no better than Halduron? He didn’t pay for sex but weren’t they the same in that regard? (And as he tried to argue with himself, he knew it was futile. He may have been more selective than Halduron, he may not have bedded just anyone, but they all served the crucial purpose of providing him with an intimacy he could not have with Kael.)

 _Why_ had he not taken anyone to his bed since Nall? He had always thought it because he was busy, because no proper elf would find themselves in bed with a traitor, because he was grieving and in love and tired. But really… Nall had broken something inside of him, something he hadn’t quite understood even as he stood before the prince’s scorched remains, heart throbbing painfully against his ribcage and tears burning trails down his cheeks. He could not do to anyone else what he had done to Nallorath. He could not entertain another relationship of convenience just to scratch an itch. Could not cause the pain he’d inflicted on Nall on another living soul. 

So he had clung to Kael as he always had. Kael was safe and known and almost his, and he told himself he was fine with heads bent together during dinner, with cramped tents and daily meetings and never once voicing his own emotions. 

(Because what if Kael did to him what he’d done to Nall?)

Kael had been dead for one year, and Rommath hadn’t had him, not even those quiet dinners or arguments over troops and traitors, not those moments of his prince resting his tired head on his shoulder or shaking him awake in the middle of the night, for five years before that. He’d clung to Kael’s memory before he’d ever died, miserable and telling himself he wasn’t. 

He didn’t want that anymore. He hadn’t wanted that for a long time.

“You don’t have to be alone,” Astalor was saying. 

“I don’t know how not to be.” The truth surprised him as he said it. Even with Nall, even when Kael had been alive, Rommath had been so stuck in his own head that he’d closed himself off from them. Because if he showed even the slightest glimpse of his true self to either of them, or to Capernian or the people before her, he risked losing them. It was better, he’d thought, to keep them at arm’s length. He didn’t want to do that anymore either.

But Aethas had seen him all those years, had wanted him regardless. 

(And left him. Back in Dalaran, all those years ago.)

And Astalor saw him. He was still here, his hand on Rommath’s arm, looking at him with love and concern and Rommath was struck with the reminder, fourteen hundred years ago, of the very brief, very intense crush he’d had on him, before Kael appeared in his life.

He laughed, a tired, mirthless noise. “Why couldn’t I have loved you?”

And Astalor pursed his lips, unsure if he could laugh. “I should think that would have worked out about as well,” he said wryly. “I’m afraid I do not feel the same about men as you do.”

The noise he made this time could be considered a real laugh, if a short one. “No,” he agreed. “I think I’d be a great deal unhappier then, since you married my sister.” He took another unsteady gulp of his tea, already cooling once more. 

Astalor took this moment to pour himself a fresh cup, put the dirtied dishes in the sink. “I think you shouldn’t be afraid to want things, Rommath. It doesn’t make you a monster to want companionship.” He regarded his friend for a long moment. “And no matter what happens, you have me. If you can open up to me, I should think you could do the same to someone else.” 

Rommath sighed. “I’ve finally become a gnome,” he lamented, wrinkling his nose. “Spewing _feelings_ everywhere.”

“You’ve finally become a gnome,” his friend agreed sagely. “It feels better, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t make me admit more to you than I already have.” 

Astalor laughed. “Alright.” Took a long sip of his tea, letting his taste buds savor it before swallowing. “So what do you plan to do?”

Rommath slumped. “Get through this awful celebration.”

“And after?”

A pause. A breath. “I suppose I’ll have to speak to Neeluu.” 

“Yes.”

Another pause. “Do you know,” he hesitated, “that she’s spoken to me twice, on the subject?” He shifted uncomfortably. Now that he was more composed, it was difficult again to talk about himself. About Neeluu. “About her… _feelings.”_

Astalor averted his eyes. “I do,” he said to his tea. “She may have mentioned.”

(And suddenly Rommath was mortified. Not only was Halduron privy to the way they danced around each other, but Astalor was too! He wanted the floor to open and swallow him whole.)

“She speaks to you? About… this?”

“Sometimes.” Another sip. “We have been friends a long time, Rommath.”

(He wanted to die. He wondered if she’d asked for advice. He wondered what advice from Astalor, advice regarding _him,_ looked like.) 

“I see.” 

And Astalor’s eyes were back on him. “Don’t do that. Don’t retreat back into yourself.”

He had been doing that, hadn’t he?

“When did you start ordering me about?” Rommath demanded. 

“When you started needing it.” He reached over again and gave Rommath’s arm another squeeze. Grinned. “It’s weird, isn’t it?”

“Who _are_ you?”

“Someone who loves you enough to put up with your bullshit,” Astalor said bluntly. “I have some time before I’m needed in the village. Let’s play a game.”

Rommath frowned. “I’m not playing that Hearthstone game. I don’t understand why you love it so much.” And Astalor laughed.

“It’s fun. But no, we don’t have to play Hearthstone. I have a fethesi board somewhere, or chess.”

“I haven’t played fethesi in _decades.”_

“Then be prepared to lose.” Astalor dug out the old board, and they set up the pieces, and at the end of the hour, Rommath had lost more horribly than he could ever remember having played in all his fifteen hundred years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever since I did Heritage of the Sin'dorei, I wanted to incorporate it somehow into this fic. That questline made me _cry_ , y'all.
> 
> Bloodroot paste is based on red bean paste, which is definitely an acquired taste when your country puts artificial sugar in everything and you're only now tasting natural, unadded-to sweetness. I know night elves and the shal'dorei have cornered the market on the "elves are Asian-inspired" front, but you can't tell me literally nothing from Old Kalimdor made its way to Quel'Thalas. Sure, the night elves didn't have bloodroot, but make do with what you got, right?
> 
> Aethas and Arator and the entire way they met is in tribute to [Unexpected Paradise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23366194) by Aegwynn. I read it months ago and it decided I loved them. I will go down with this ship.


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rommath stands stoic through the remembrance ceremony, and learns a secret about Tyrael Flamekissed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my ex, who patiently read all twenty-four text messages in my attempt to figure out the final death toll of Quel'Thalas, and saved me from the confusing percentages to calculate it himself. Math is hard.
> 
> (That death toll is 6.79 million, by the way. Just... mull that over for a minute.)

Lor’themar, it had been decided, would carry the sacred flame ﹣ the  _ ceremonial artifact, _ Rommath amended with a roll of his eyes. He would begin at the new elfgates of Thalassian Pass, christening the monument of the Farstriders who’d fallen defending it with the Light of the Sunwell, and make his way north. The Greenbough Pass in the south was still a broken, infested thing, and Rommath had voiced his concern more than once over the remnants of the Scourge so close to the flame of the Sunwell, but Lor’themar would hear none of it. He would be fine, he assured him, he had Halduron and a contingent of Farstriders, and Solanar Bloodwrath himself would accompany him. 

As far as Rommath heard, the christening had gone well. The monument, a large memorial to the twenty men and women who’d lost their lives before the deactivated elfgate, had been commissioned and paid for by an anonymous source, and Rommath had seen it before it had left the city. Twenty men and women, faces distinct and detailed, rendered so lifelike in stone as to seem plausible they would simply walk off the pedestal and resume the defense of Quel’Thalas once more. Their names were listed on the accompanying plaque, and Rommath thought, perhaps, it had been a Farstrider who’d paid for it, just as they’d paid for the statue of Sylvanas in the center of Windrunner Village, now finally, blessedly free of Scourge. 

(It was Lor’themar’s hope the resettle the area, and Rommath had caught more than passing gossip of eager citizens, rangers and former southerners. Windrunner Village had been a posh, quiet summer retreat when Rommath was a boy, but it seemed the promise of only the second resettlement in the south drew nobles and commoners alike.)

The entire journey, from Thalassian Pass to the Sunwell, would take ten days on hawkback, and of course Lor’themar would ride. He had arrived at the Pass nine days ago, and spent the night in Silvermoon City yesterday. The ambassadors ﹣ the troll Tatai, the orc woman Cheneta, Dela Runetotem from Thunder Bluff and the Forsaken Kristine Denny ﹣ had done good, had written to their cities and sponsored much of the food and entertainment. A band of… decidedly  _ eclectic _ taste had been brought in from Kalimdor, the Elite Tauren Chieftains or some such nonsense. (Cheneta had assured him that they were quite popular in Orgrimmar, and while Rommath disliked the noise immediately, Halduron had seemed to enjoy it _immensely_ , sweeping little Salandria up onto his shoulders and letting loose in a way Rommath had never seen.) 

Lor’themar’s statue had been finished, standing proudly in Farstrider’s Square, one stone eye keeping cool watch over the populace. Lor’themar disliked it as he did all reminders of his rule, and privately (very privately) Rommath wondered if perhaps the man  _ would _ have looked better holding a bow rather than the sword he had given him. 

There had been speeches, and Rommath had heard word of them all. Halduron had insisted he would speak at Thalassian Pass, but didn’t ﹣ couldn’t, and when he tried again at Fairbreeze, far away from the southlands but still not so far from the occasional wandering corpse, he’d spoken of the bravery of Sylvanas Windrunner in the place where she’d fell, and Rommath didn’t think he’d meant to speak of Sylvanas at all. Liadrin spoke in Silvermoon, where the Blood Knight Order had been born, spoke of them stepping out from the shadow of tragedy into the light of this new world but never, never forgetting. Kath’mar had blessed the city and the sin’dorei and instructed them, as Liadrin had, to never dare forget what had transpired there, to not cheapen the lives that had been lost so that they themselves may yet stand here on this day. The Lament of the Highborne rang out, the pain of every elf manifest in song, and afterwards Kath’mar led them in a moment of silence in remembrance of the dead. 

“Remember the names of those we have lost,” he had said solemnly. “Keep them alive in your memories and your hearts. Do not let them die again.” 

(There was a ceremony that night, at Silvermoon’s Chapel of Light. Priests passed out candles and sigils, and the devoted left flowers and candies sweet-swelling incense. The Chapel had been decorated with over one thousand faerie lights, a beautiful, bright, sad display, and the city glowed that night, a light ﹣ faerie, mage, or candle flame ﹣ in every window.)

* * *

Rommath hadn’t slept well last night. Kath’mar’s surprising competence and his faerie lights had left a deep, gnawing ache in his heart. He saw his sister when he closed his eyes, and Kael, and his old, dead friends. He’d lain in bed with Kim’alah, stroking her silky fur as she slept, head thrust upside down and spine twisted (and Rommath would never understand how cats  _ slept _ like that), and sleep had not come easy. He’d known Quel’Thalas had suffered, but to  _ see _ it so plainly, each soft, twinkling Chapel light a marker for seven thousand lost souls… It made his chest tight. There had been so many lights…

Lor’themar would be arriving shortly, with Halduron and Liadrin and Solanar. The Sunwell Grove and its memorial were the final stop on his journey from Thalassian Pass. (The subject of recreating Arthas Menethil’s path of frost from the city to the isle had never been broached. No one wanted to see the stark reminder of the tragedy melting into the sea; Lor’themar would arrive by dragonhawk, on the far side of the isle.) Rommath stood beside the memorial, with Kath’mar and Astalor to his left and Neeluu and the draenei Velen to his right. 

Astalor was speaking quietly with Kath’mar, about the light display the night before. He seemed to be praising the priest, who thanked him profusely. “The idea belonged to one of my acolytes,” he was saying. At the mention of the lights, Rommath was glad for the cowl obscuring his face. The tautness of his jaw as he bit the inside of his cheek could not be seen from inside it.

Beside him, Neeluu had similarly armored herself in her robes of office. The phoenix halo gleamed in the sunlight, matching the cloth-of-gold embroidery at her cuffs and collar. The sun and sword of her house gleamed at her throat and rubies dripped from her ears. A bracelet of pearls encircled one wrist, on prominent display as she clutched her hands so tightly in front of herself that her knuckles had gone white. Tyrael Flamekissed, close by and stiff, shot her the occasional, concerned look. 

A cheer went up from the crowd as Lor’themar and his retinue crested the horizon. He looked lordly astride his white cockerel, holy flame held high. He looked regal. He looked like a Sunstrider. 

Halduron dismounted, held the reins of both his own bird and Lor’themar’s as the Regent Lord did the same. To his left, Solanar Bloodwrath and Liadrin, clad in the shining red and black plate of the blood knights, sat atop their horses for the briefest moment before they, too, stepped down. A line of stable hands, dressed more grandly than perhaps they’d ever been in their lives, discreetly led the animals away. 

The crowd parted for the Regent Lord, and watching his easy, loping gait, Rommath felt himself settling, the thudding of his heart quieting. It was because of this man that they still lived. As viciously as Rommath had fought Kael’s choice, as much as he mocked and insulted Lor’themar, it was because of him that the sin’dorei still existed, were fed and protected and healthy and  _ alive. _ Perhaps a ranger had been the best man for the job, really. A ranger was used to the horrors of war, was closer to the common folk. Knew how best to encourage the scorched forests to grow, which roads were safe from troll raids, how many animals the forests could spare for slaughter and how many must be imported. Lor’themar Theron was not kingly, was not even noble despite his mother’s Sunstrider blood, and it was  _ because _ of that that he was the man they had needed these desperate ten years.  _ Rommath _ certainly didn’t know about wildfires and had never seen a troll before meeting the ambassador Tatai. Kael would have not understood the relationship between the land and its people, would not have accurately met his people’s needs at all, though he would have tried. And Astalor… the Astalor he had grown up with was sheltered and rich, had never boiled his own water for tea or even cut his own cake. The three of them would have, if Rommath were honest, been a disaster for Quel’Thalas. 

Long ago, Quel’Thalas and House Sunstrider had been blessed by Al’ar the phoenix god. The legend went that Al’ar had revealed himself to Dath’Remar, led them from the dark, cursed forests of Lordaeron and the frigid Amani Mountains to the sweet waters of the Throndoril River, to the untouched beauty of Eversong. And when he revealed himself to Kael, blessed him as a babe in the cradle, there had been many who whispered that Kael would be the second coming of Dath’Remar himself. Al’ar had not been seen in many years but standing there, the holy fire of the Sunwell held high, Rommath almost believed he’d come back. Almost believed that it was not Kael who embodied the legendary Sunstrider king, but Lor’themar.

The Regent Lord spoke, clear and loud, his booming voice carrying along the wind and waves at their backs. “Thank you, for being here with me today. Thank you to the men and women who made the journey from Thalassian Pass with me. It was very important, I think, for the Light of the Sunwell to touch all corners of Quel’Thalas, and I am honored to be the one entrusted with this sacred flame. Thank you, Warden Neeluu, for allowing me to bring the Sunwell to even our most scarred, desolate places. Thank you for allowing me to spread hope throughout our country.” 

To his right, Neeluu bowed low. “I take no credit. It was my honor to serve you, Regent Lord.” Kath’mar, far to his left, was beaming, as if Lor’themar had thanked him and not Neeluu. Perhaps because it was Lor’themar, who Kath’mar held above all else.

The ranger swept his arm towards the draenei prophet Velen. “One year ago, we were given a gift we did not deserve. Prophet Velen, with kindness bound by no faction nor creed, despite the warring between our peoples in the Outland, brought the Sunwell back to us. Without him and the Light, we would have suffered another year of Wretchedness and death. We would have suffered the losses of children and mothers and brothers. We would still be eating away at our own lives with siphoned mana crystals.  _ Thank you, _ Prophet Velen, from the very bottom of our hearts. Without you, we may not have lived to see today.”

The draenei leader stood taller than even Kael once had, dwarfing but not eclipsing the elves at his side. He turned his silver eyes to the crowd, the soft smile on his face soothing, gentle, and said to them all, “Thank you for allowing me and my people the honor of joining you this day. I will tell you all what I said one year ago: I am no hero. I know the pain of loss, of genocide. I know the pain of betrayal. I saw a people so like my own, a people struggling to find their way in a world that can at times seem overwhelmingly cruel, a people who needed help. I am no hero. I could not call myself a son of the Light if I did not offer that help to you.” His voice, quiet though it was, thundered in the quiet of the Grove. “It is not about faction lines or kings or races. As the Light’s children, it is the duty of us all to reach out to our fellows in need, to offer kindness and light in this world to every living being. The world is not as dark as it seems, my children, and should you require aid, the draenei shall stand by your side.”

Rommath stiffened at the words. The draenei had sided with the human Alliance nearly the moment the humans set foot in the Outland. Theirs was a relationship built on trust and safety from the orcs who had persecuted them for so long, the orcs who now protected Silvermoon. Rommath didn’t want to believe the old man but as he looked at him with wide eyes, he didn’t feel as though Velen were lying. As though Velen  _ could _ lie. He meant what he’d said, and in their fervent worship of him, the draenei would follow his command. Should they reach out, it seemed Velen had every intent to provide aid. 

(He felt a pang, in that moment, as Velen’s hooves shuffled back through the grass, as he stood beside Neeluu once more. Though they should be enemies ﹣  _ were _ enemies ﹣ he wished, in that moment, that his sister had met the draenei leader. Velen’s words sounded so very like Auriel’s own, and something she said echoed back to him from years ago.  _ Priesthood is about learning humility, kindness, the value of hard work. It is about love. ...Through the Light, we are all the same.) _

He listened as Lor’themar continued his thanks ﹣ to the Shattered Sun, the Farstriders, the Magisters’ Sanctum, the Blood Knights. As he spoke of his hopes for the future, for Quel’Thalas and the sin’dorei. As in Silvermoon, he asked for a moment of silence for those who gave their lives, and Rommath swallowed around the lump in his throat. He fixed his eyes on the  _ Auriel Bloodsworn _ chiseled on the memorial, on the flowers lovingly placed at its feet. Prickly pink southern puffs and Azerothian roses, mageroyal bouquets and banshee’s bells and a wreath of strange, beautiful snapdragons from Azuremyst. Azshara’s veil and sunfruit blossoms and prized chromatic lilies from the Royal Silvermoon Gardens. (Some of them, he was sure, provided medicinal relief. Auriel would have known. He blinked furiously, remembering a morning long past ﹣ Auriel had sat with Astalor in the Hall of Blood, patiently explaining that she had not hurt herself while preparing bloodvine oil, that the redder the vines’ sap the more potent the mixture. Astalor’s surprise when he’d pressed a cloth to her thumb anyway, only to have it come away clean, the skin smooth and unbroken.)

Beside him he heard a soft noise, saw out of the corner of his eye Neeluu bringing a handkerchief to her face, dabbing at her wet eyes. The tears fell throughout the moment of silence, and as it ended and Lor’themar brought his speech to a close, she stepped forward and accepted from him the Sunwell’s flame, spiriting it back to the well from which it’d come. Long tables had been set up as they had last year, the villagers of Dawnstar having laden them all with food and wine, orange marigolds and incense. Neeluu didn’t reappear, and Rommath was distracted from that by Astalor, who asked him to meet back at the memorial before departing for the night. To pray together for the souls that had been lost. To speak with Auriel again on the anniversary of her death. 

“Of course,” Rommath assured him. He would like nothing more than a quiet moment with his sister and Astalor again. It pained him that Auriel herself would not be there to enjoy it.

Salandria shot past him, her hair braided prettily with little white flowers, straight towards the draenei delegation. Rommath’s first instinct was to yank the child back by her collar ﹣ how often had he done that with his brothers? ﹣ to apologize profusely for the offense she would cause. But Velen and the exarchs were not angry, as Salandria talked, animated and loud and with a generous amount of arm flailing. Velen knelt with a quiet pop of joints and smiled, face to face with the little girl, and when he spoke Rommath realized it was not in Common or Thalassian. No, Velen was speaking Draenei to the girl, who chattered back readily, and confusion colored Rommath’s face like a blush. 

“My apologies.” And then Liadrin was there, one hand on her daughter’s shoulder, stiff and formal in her plate armor. “My daughter is very excited.”

Velen chuckled, a soothing sound. “So she said. I did not know you spoke Draenei as well, Lady Liadrin.” 

And Liadrin shook her head. “My Draenei is very poor,” she confessed. “My daughter has been teasing me for it for weeks.”

“Mother doesn’t know Draenei,” Salandria said bluntly. “Sometimes… sometimes, when I get to come here, Mother asks me to talk to everyone for her.” 

(His ears twitched ﹣ he hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but Rommath couldn’t help the curl of his lips. He had always thought Liadrin quite talented with languages, and it amused him that she occasionally needed the help of a seven year old.)

“It is the R,” Velen said kindly, pronouncing a syllable that sounded like he’d swallowed his tongue and left it to rumble within his throat. “It is difficult for non speakers. Your daughter pronounces it well.”

(And Rommath, convinced Salandria had not insulted the man in childish ignorance, tuned out, and it wasn’t long before he was excusing himself away from the festivities, drained from his bad night and long day and stress. Liadrin could handle her daughter.)

* * *

It was late, as Rommath left the memorial with Astalor, and the chill coming off the sea was no unpleasant after the heat of the day. It grounded him, kept him out of his head. The crowds had thinned, though people still milled about. There was a rumor floating through the villagers, of a woman with child who’d traveled from the Tranquil Shore to hear Lor’themar speak, to bask in the holy Light of the Sunwell. If the rumor were true, her child would be the first born in Quel’Thalas since Rommath had returned from the Outland.

(He felt his heart twist at the realization. Elves were not humans, were not trolls. Children were a precious gift, uncommon and cherished. Elves had few children, and often not until well into their fifth century. Until Liadrin had brought Salandria from Shattrath, there had been no children in Silvermoon at all.)

He bid Astalor goodnight in the village square, declining his offer to return to his cottage for tea and cake. He found his feet taking him in the direction of the stables, which were blissfully quiet, away from the festivities. A few hawkstriders were sleeping, chittering softly or clicking their beaks as they dreamed. Halduron’s blue cockerel thrust his head out of his stall, curious orange eyes watching raptly as Rommath flagged down a stablehand and ordered a bird saddled. The stately horses of the blood knights, corralled in larger, sturdier stalls with brass bolts on the doors, whickered quietly. Lor’themar’s stately white bird, blinding amongst the sea of dark animals, dozed, head resting on its own back. Rommath thought it was snoring, and then chided himself. Hawkstriders didn’t snore. 

(Cats snored though. Perhaps it wasn’t so unusual if a bird did too.)

The hawkstrider brought to him was unfamiliar, its feathers a deep, gleaming ruby red and its beak a polished ivory. Rommath didn’t protest ﹣ there were so many people on the isle that his usual bird was probably either in use or exhausted. What was odd though, he thought, as he stuck one foot in the stirrup and mounted, was the conspicuous absence of Dal’dorei. Neeluu’s hen was one of the few birds Rommath knew by name, given that he had purchased her himself with Kael’s gold. She was an unusual hawkstrider in that she possessed a mellow, placid disposition, something he had been told was quite rare for a female. (Halduron, great lover of hawkstriders that he was, once told him that all hens were vicious, mad things, good only for war and laying eggs. Some were too savage to even care for their own chicks.) Dal’dorei was treated like a queen, perhaps the only one who enjoyed Neeluu’s high status, and she spent nearly every evening in the paddocks, watching everything and everyone and chirruping nosily at elf and animal alike. 

“Has Dal’dorei been brought in for the night?” he asked the stablehand. He didn’t remember seeing the bird inside, and it was quite odd that she should have been stalled when there were other birds still out and about. She would have made a fine cat, Rommath thought idly.

“No, Grand Magister. Lady Neeluu had her saddled about an hour ago.”

“Is that usual?” He may know the bird’s name, but he knew little of Neeluu’s riding habits.

“Oh, Lady Neeluu takes Dal’dorei out daily,” the stablehand assured him. “She worries she doesn’t exercise enough. Captain Flamekissed ordered her saddled this morning but with the ceremony, Lady Neeluu was unable to go out.”

Huh. Rommath had never pegged Neeluu as bird crazy as Halduron. (Although Halduron would argue that hawkstriders were not  _ proper birds _ because “proper birds are weak, foul creatures kept by trolls and hawkstriders are beautiful and noble animals, Rommath.”)

“Thank you,” he said absentmindedly. Something about his friend had been off earlier, and if she was seeking solace away from the crowds instead of in them, perhaps he ought to look for her. 

(It only registered later, the pitter patter of hawkstrider feet in his ears, that the stablehand had stared at him as he’d left, not because he was inquiring as to the location of the Warden’s bird, but because Rommath had thanked the boy for his time. He couldn’t remember the last time he had ever thanked a servant. Certainly not since he was a boy himself, back in Tranquillien.)

He would have steered his bird north, in the direction of the Magister’s Terrace (the direction of Kael’s grave), were it not for the dark feather on the path leading south towards the sea. Rommath was no tracker, but closer inspection proved the feather to be a deep, royal purple, and Dal’dorei was the only purple hawkstrider on Quel’Danas. It was one of the reasons he’d bought her, so long ago, with Kael’s gold and Kael’s name. Purple was a rare color amongst hawkstriders, and combined with her uncommon amber eyes, Rommath had thought her a beautiful gift from the crown prince to his betrothed. 

He went south. 

  
  


Southern Quel’Danas had yet to be restored. Ten years after the Scourge, the dilapidated docks swayed precariously in the sea, the harbor sludgy and dark from the Scar. The Warden Dawnseeker had elected to simply move the docks to the northern side of the isle, sacrificing the private slips his family had used for millennia in the interests of spending the gold it was have cost to restore it elsewhere. Neeluu had upheld her father’s decision.  _ It’s not as if we need the southern harbor, _ she’d pointed out,  _ when the north has served us better these past ten years. When we can spare the men, we’ll tear it down, but there is no reason anymore to rebuild it. _ The gold that should have been funneled into the southern harbor instead went to Kul Tiras, to Tel Abim, to Kalimdor, buying medicine and foodstuffs and raw building materials. It had been a wise decision, one of the first she had ever made.

The ghosts of the southern harbor followed him as he steered his bird away. The hollowed out buildings, the old moorings and broken ships unnerved him. The Scourge had been cleared from them, and Rommath did not fear an ambush, but the old harbor was a dead, broken thing, and he wanted no parts of it. 

He heard Dal’dorei before he saw her, as his hawkstrider warbled out a salutation that was readily returned. She was laying on the grass, legs tucked beneath her like a cat, and leaning against her warm wing was Neeluu, the red of her robes a garish clash against Dal’dorei’s heliotrope plumage. 

“Evening,” Rommath called. He dismounted rather clumsily (Kael and Astalor, raised on hawkback like all higher nobles, had always found his gracelessness in all manners hawkstrider amusing), concerned when his friend did not immediately return the greeting. That was not like her. “Neeluu?”

Perhaps the phoenix halo and brocade cloak should have clued him in. The stiff finery had always been unbecoming of her, something donned only when needed. The fact that she had not removed them, when Lor’themar’s speech had happened hours ago, should have told him that he approached not his friend, the Lady Neeluu, but the Warden of the Sunwell and the Light of Dawn. “Everything alright?” 

It was a strange place to camp, all things considered, with the spectre of the southern harbor at their backs and the ravaged path of the Dead Scar before them. When they had been younger, the Sunwell Grove had stretched nearly to the water, tree roots snaking out from the sandstone and dipping into the sea. Now, the scorched, dead earth of the Scar ran all the way to the rebuilt sanctum, and the outer wall overlooked the sea through a parted curtain of golden leaves. The walls of the Sanctum of the Sunwell had been the very first to be rebuilt, once the Scourge had been cleared. 

So many people had died on that blackened terrace of earth. In the back of his mind, Rommath wondered where his sister had fallen. Near that patch by the sea, tainted with fel and glowing eerily in the evening light? Beneath the pit lord bones propped against the rotting tree? With her back to the sanctum wall, its gleaming white stone imposing and formidable now as it had not been then? He wondered, scattered amongst the bones of demons and decaying flora, where her sword had gone. Had it gotten buried in the carnage, sleeping somewhere in the earth, or had someone picked it up, carried it once his sister no longer could? The blade had been nearly as tall as she, but in the chaos of battle had vanished, never to be found. 

(And what would he do with it if it was, anyway? What use did he have for a broadsword?)

“My brother is here somewhere.” Neeluu’s voice was so soft Rommath almost didn’t hear it over the wind whistling unchecked over the unelevated ground. With no trees or shrubs or even grass to muffle the sounds, nature screamed more loudly here than anywhere else. 

(Thalorien’s body had never been moved. It had been too dangerous, at the time, surrounded by Scourge and frost, and by the time the Scourge had been eradicated from the isle, the place he had fallen had been overrun by demons, their fel blood soaking the earth and rendering the working of magics erratic and unstable. It had never been safe to retrieve the Swordbearer, and Rommath didn’t know if it ever would be.)

“Someone told me where once,” she went on. “A long time ago. But then they cleared the broken pillars, and I can’t find him anymore.” 

“He’s still there,” he said gently. “You can still visit him.”

Not like her father, whose body had never been found. Whether torn apart by demons or tossed into the sea, no one had ever found so much as a scrap of the Warden Dawnseeker. 

“Yes.” Neeluu’s hair was coming undone from its elaborate twist. It looked vaguely reminiscent of the styles he’d seen on the draenei women of the Shattered Sun, and the fallen pieces blew softly in the ocean breeze. “But I would like a marker, I think. Something to show that he…” Her voice caught. “That he’d been here. That he’d lived at all.” 

Rommath was reminded of his sister’s ring, the only thing salvageable from her corpse. How desperately he’d clung it, numb as he’d been, as if trying to siphon any Light she’d left behind. His sister had few possessions, and in the end he’d given it to Astalor. Rommath had twelve hundred years of memories and letters and carved Light sigils, which was more than Astalor had at all. He had the memorial, with his sister’s ashes interred beneath. Neeluu didn’t even have that.

“You have your memories,” he said gently. “As long as you keep him alive in your memories, he’ll never truly leave you.” 

(He did not know, he realized then, how close Neeluu had been to her brother. If she’d been close to him at all. The Dawnseekers were a warm, kind people, but Rommath realized in that moment that he knew very little about each of them personally. Thalorien had been his friend, once upon a time, but he found he could not recall how old the man had been when he’d died, if he or Rommath were the elder. He could not recall a single instance of ever having seen Thalorien with his sister, though surely it had happened often. Quel’Danas was not a big isle.)

He heard Neeluu’s sharp indrawn breath, and watched with alarm as her eyes filled with tears. Sounding almost detached, as though she weren’t properly there, Neeluu asked him suddenly, “Have you heard the news from Northrend?”

“Pardon?”

“Northrend,” she repeated. “Have you heard?”

“Heard what?”

She bit her lip hard to keep it from trembling, and when she spoke again, Rommath saw the indent of her teeth on the skin. “Tyrael didn’t want to tell me,” she whispered. “Didn’t want to upset me, I guess.” 

(And where  _ was _ Tyrael Flamekissed, Rommath wondered abruptly. He couldn’t recall any time since her return from Dalaran that the spellblade had not been plastered to her side.)

He waited patiently. If Astalor had taught him anything, it was that sometimes people needed a moment to gather themselves before the words came. 

“There was a report from Icecrown. It was about Quel’Delar but…”

Quel’Delar had been the legendary sword of the Dawnseekers, forged from the talon of Al’ar and bestowed upon the first Warden of the Sunwell by Dath’Remar himself. The firstborn son of every Warden was christened the Swordbearer, he who would inherit the power of Al’ar and stand watch over the well. When Thalorien fell, Quel’Delar disappeared. It had not been among the weaponry recovered from the Scar, nor in the hand of any slain demon. The tragedy of losing Quel’Delar, like the loss of the great Sunstrider blade Felo’melorn, was nearly as terrible as losing Thalorien himself. 

“Quel’Delar?!”

But Neeluu didn’t seem interested in her family’s ancestral blade. “It mentioned Lana’thel,” she whispered. 

And Lana’thel had been missing for years, Rommath knew. Former captain of Thalorien’s guard, his death had utterly shattered her. There had been talk that she was no longer fit to command Dawnblades, after his death, and when Kael put out the call for the strongest elves to join his Sunfury forces, she had leapt at the chance. Grieving and unhinged, they had lost her after joining forces with Illidan Stormrage, and with no word of her since, it was generally accepted that she was dead. (Her name was even etched on the memorial gravesite.)

Rommath stared. “She’s alive?! Is she alright?” 

It was the wrong thing to say. The tears flew unchecked down Neeluu’s cheeks, and she dissolved into horrible, ugly sobbing. The loose strands that had worked their way from her intricate hairstyle grew damp, blown by the wind onto her wet face and clinging there. She couldn’t speak, even when Dal’dorei thrust her violet head against her own, chittering in concern. It took a long moment for her to move at all, and when she did, it was to pull from her sleeve a piece of crumpled parchment and throw it wordlessly in his general direction. 

Whatever it said about Lana’thel was decidedly not good. 

Rommath snatched it, skimming the cramped handwriting as quickly as he dared. There was a rumor that Quel’Delar had been sighted in Icecrown, it said, and some frankly trivial musings over the numbers it would require, in men and gold, to investigate. And there, bookended between a ridiculous sum and a list of possible leads, lay the words that had distraught his dear friend.  _ It seems the rumors of Lana’thel’s presence were not unfounded; she was spotted among the ranks of the San’layn. We will have to look elsewhere for the sword. _

He felt his blood run cold. He’d heard rumors of the San’layn, the occasional report passing through his hands. They were the blood elves who had perished in Stormrage’s attack on Icecrown, raised into something not quite alive and not quite dead by Arthas Menethil, something wholly different from the Scourge and utterly unholy, and their existence had only surfaced when one of Kael’s Sunfury agents had been found, drained of blood and lifeless in the snow. 

If Lana’thel was  _ among _ the San’layn, then that meant… 

And Neeluu had carried this horrifying message with her,  _ in her sleeve,  _ the entire day… Had received it sometime before her morning ride on Dal’dorei and stood stoically with him and Astalor and Velen and Kath’mar, and  _ smiled _ at the unassuming people of Quel’Danas with these awful words burning in her mind… 

Rommath didn’t think. He couldn’t think. He lurched forward on his knees, nearly toppling in his haste, and gathered Neeluu in his arms with force, the phoenix halo smacking noisily against his cheek. It was perhaps only the second time they’d ever touched, ever embraced in his way, pressed together with nary an inch between. Neeluu shuddered in his arms and the dam burst, and unlike that night on the veranda all those months ago, she collapsed into him like a puppet whose strings had been cut, and sobbed like a child. Perhaps this, the news of Lana’thel, the first real news of her since the failed assassination of Arthas Menethil, was the first time she had ever truly, honestly let herself cry. She had lost her father, her brother, her Sunwell, and her intended, and aside from the night on the veranda, Rommath had never seen her shed so much as a single tear for it. With the news of Lana’thel’s apparent allegiance to the Darkfallen, it seemed the last pillar holding her up had collapsed.

(And where Rommath was uncertain of the relationship between siblings, there was no doubt in his mind of the one between Neeluu and Lana’thel. As a child, before Dalaran and Jaina and Astalor, Lana’thel had been Neeluu’s closest confidante. She spoke of the Dawnblade often and with homesickness in the city of mages, and at Thalorien’s death had rushed home, the two of them inseparable in their grief. Losing Lana’thel had been devastating, and Rommath didn’t know what he would do in her position. If he lost Astalor not once but twice, to the Scourge and then the San’layn. He would be utterly inconsolable, shattered and broken.)

Thoughts of propriety and decorum and feelings excused themselves promptly and without protest. He knelt on the grass and held Neeluu to his chest, the front of his robes growing steadily wetter with tears, and found he did not care, in this moment, who stumbled upon them like this. Tyrael Flamekissed and his misplaced anger, Halduron with his teasing, or even little Salandria with all her wide-eyed childhood innocence. It did not matter, in this moment, that his reputation barely held its head above water, that he was still monitored by the likes of Kath’mar and the guild heads and the Silvermoon elite. It did not matter that he had been born the son of a minor lord, a man who after the Scourge held no land and no titles and who kept his position solely through determination and spite. And it did not matter that Neeluu was, and had always been, too good for him in every sense, descended from a proud line raised to prominence by Dath’Remar himself, did not matter that had Kael lived she would have been Queen of Quel’Thalas. 

In that moment, they were neither of them the Grand Magister or the Warden of the Sunwell. They were merely Rommath and Neeluu, two people suffering the horrors of war, two people who for far too long had buried all that was painful and terrible down so deep, had worn the masks of their stations for so long, that when they broke they  _ crumbled. _ When the dam burst, it was all they could do to hold on to the wreckage and not be swept out to sea. 

Rommath remembered, one year ago, sobbing in the fresh dirt of Kael’s grave. Pounding his fists on the ground, his heart a bloody throbbing wound, with only the murlocs to hear him scream. Neeluu had found him, whether she’d intended to or not. Smoothed his ragged edges with her soft, sad smile and the wistful reminiscing of red velvet cake. Had dusted him off and marched him back to the Warden’s estate, served him honey bread and tea she’d made herself. If she had not come to collect him, he very well might have thrown himself into the sea. 

“Hey,” he murmured. He didn’t know how long they’d been sitting. Long enough for the tears to stop and his knees to ache. Wincing, he carefully shifted his weight. Sat down properly. She stilled beneath him in a manner Rommath knew all too well, ready to compose herself in a moment and hide behind the phoenix halo. “Hey,” he breathed again. “Let’s go back. I’m sure Flamekissed is worried.”

He lacked the gentle, easy demeanor she’d had with him, but she seemed to understand his intentions nonetheless. He couldn’t offer her food in her own home, but he could help her astride Dal’dorei, and he could ride back with her. He could turn their reins over to the stablehands so they would not see her red eyes and puffy face, and walk with her back to the estate, a pillar to lean against should she so choose. 

“My Lady!” came the cry of Tyrael Flamekissed, concerned and relieved and angry all at once, and the captain stopped his relentless pacing up and down the manor steps to fly to her side, large hands with bitten nails gripping her slim arms. “Are you alright? When you did not return from the inner sanctum, I ordered an entire squadron out to search for you!” He took in her overtired, emotional state, the salt tracks down her cheeks, and his eyes narrowed. He shot Rommath a filthy look. “What happened?”

“Call them off, Tyrael, and calm yourself. I am fine.” Her words were gentle but firm. 

“What  _ happened?” _ Flamekissed demanded, in a tone entirely unsuited for its recipient. Too familiar, too unreserved. As though they were friends, as though he was not a retainer in her employee. Neeluu was unbothered as she always was, but something in the way Flamekissed spoke to her, carried himself just now, sparked a prickle of realization in the back of Rommath’s mind. 

“Tyrael,” Neeluu said kindly, “you worry overmuch. Truly, I am fine. I needed a moment after the events of the day, and dear Rommath unfortunately found himself caught in the storm of it.” 

Flamekissed would not argue with his lady, no matter how badly he may wish to. He snapped his jaw shut, and after leveling her with a hard eye released his hold on her. He looked as though he didn’t believe her, as if he thought she were lying for Rommath’s sake. “I am glad you are safe, my lady,” he said stiffly.

Neeluu smiled and lay a hand on his chest plate, the briefest touch of fingertips, her nails tapping quietly against the metal. “I am sorry for the commotion I caused. I did not mean to worry you with my problems.”

The captain’s face softened at her words, and Rommath suddenly understood. Flamekissed exhaled and signalled to his Dawnblade subordinates to open the manor doors. Neeluu turned her tired eyes to Rommath and managed another small smile. “Will you be staying the night, Grand Magister?” 

(He finally understood the animosity radiating from Flamekissed. Finally it all made sense, the withering stares, the snarls, the barely concealed contempt.)

“I’m unsure. I had planned to return to the city.”

Neeluu nodded. “I’ll ask Karynna to make your bed with fresh sheets if you change your mind.” She brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. “I think I will be retiring soon. This anniversary has taken more out of me than I anticipated.”

“Sleep well.” 

The two men watched her climb the marble stairs and bid goodnight to the Dawnblades at the door, and it wasn’t until she was gone and out of earshot that Flamekissed whirled on him. “What did you  _ do?” _

Rommath arranged his face in a cool mask. “I did nothing, aside from proving myself the more capable of the two of us.”

“Her face ﹣ what did you ﹣  _ why _ was she distressed?” 

“I suppose the report you tried to conceal had something to do with it.” 

Flamekissed sputtered, face reddening in anger, but Rommath cut him off. “No good retainer keeps secrets from their lady. No one properly trained would allow his own feelings to interfere with his duty to his employer. You  _ are _ an employee, Captain Flamekissed, and your high position has led you to believe that you may take certain liberties with the Lady Neeluu and the company she keeps. Remember to whom you speak: I am the Grand Magister, regardless of your feelings towards me, and my station far outranks your own. You may not like me, you may believe I am a traitor and a warlock and all the other drivel spread by court gossips, but you will show respect to me and to the Lady Neeluu.”

Flamekissed gaped at him. “ _ Me _ ﹣ respect ﹣  _ you _ should﹣”

“If you were my subordinate, I would have fired you years ago. Your behavior is disturbing at worst and unprofessional at best. The Blood Matriarch’s daughter has better conduct.” 

The spellblade looked as though he might hit him. Maybe he would. Rommath had loved Kael for fourteen hundred years and had never treated even  _ Jaina _ the way Flamekissed treated him. Rommath may have been cold and closed off to Kael’s many flings, but he had never been anything but coolly polite to all of them. He had even, for a time, been  _ friends _ with Jaina. Kael, however… if he could have set fire to Arthas Menethil’s cloak and gotten away with it, Rommath was sure he would have. 

Rommath was sure Captain Flamekissed dreamed of setting fire to  _ his _ cloak. 

“If you wish to stay by her side, I advise you to reign in your tongue,” he warned, “because I will not tolerate it. Your lady is far kinder than I, but make no mistake: a word from me and you will be dismissed.” 

Rommath didn’t like Tyrael Flamekissed. It was hard to feel any affection towards a man who had been all but openly hostile towards him since he was a student in Dalaran. But he understood the terrible position the captain was in. He had been in it himself, and it was that understanding that brokered his advice towards the man. Rommath would have kept his mouth shut and been nothing but courteous and pleasant towards Jaina Proudmoore, should she have returned his prince’s feelings. Should he have been allowed to court and marry her. He wouldn’t have liked it, but Rommath had loved Kael, and he would not have caused distress for the one Kael loved out of his own jealousies. He expected the same courtesy from Flamekissed.

The prominent vein in Flamekissed’s forehead throbbed as the man worked his jaw, swallowed. Narrowed his eyes. This was why Rommath had never employed spellbreakers, though he saw their usefulness. They were far too emotional, became far too attached. No, he managed just fine with Erindae and a slew of personally programmed arcane guardians. 

“Please give me apologies to the Warden,” he said after a moment. “I believe I will be returning to the city after all.” He honestly was exhausted, from the anniversary and Neeluu’s tears and Flamekissed’s damnable attitude, and would have preferred to crawl into his old bed in his old room in the manor, but if he stayed, he knew he would end up at Kael’s grave come morning, and he simply did not have the energy for  _ that. _

Flamekissed glared at him for a long moment before finally looking away, like a cat finally accepting its place. The back of his neck burned a fierce Silvermoon red. “Good night, Grand Magister.”

“Good night to you, Captain Flamekissed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #Free Salandria.
> 
> I CRIED writing everything related to the Heritage of the Sin'dorei. Just. Guys. Salandria's presence at all kept me going - her headbanging to ETC with Halduron gives me LIFE.
> 
> I played with Lana'thel's and Quel'Delar's canon a little to fit the timeline. Nothing terribly major. 
> 
> Obligatory reminder that some locations (ie. Greenbough Pass) come from Warcraft III.


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rommath loses himself in research and then he gets robbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, folks, we really almost there! The conclusion of the flashbacks is on its way, and then we're back to the future(tm) and almost at the end!

Rommath was obsessed. He’d spent every waking moment since his encounter with Vor’na in the Forbidden Library, pouring over every book, every scroll, every scrap of parchment he could find on troll magicks. It wasn’t easy, given the natural bias against trolls and all they stood for, but a fair few magisters and a handful of more magically inclined Farstriders had studied the Amani and their mysterious rituals. Even Dalaran’s extensive libraries had held few books on the subject. He devoured information of troll jujus (a kind of amplification device) and mojo (which seemed to him the equivalent of liquid mana), of witch doctors and shadow hunters and hexxers; read firsthand accounts about voodoo spells and elaborate tattoos, strange poultices and eerie trances. Vor’na, of course, was no help. He couldn’t study her without risking his own life, couldn’t decipher exactly  _ how _ she had drained the crystal of mana and used it to call forth enough magic to siphon his own. He’d had her searched, before releasing her back to western Silvermoon (because he’d learned quickly that any attempts to contain her drew forth Wretched mobs, a worrying chunk of information), and was told that she carried nothing on her person save the clothes on her back, a red jewel set in gold around her neck, and the remnants of the mana crystal he’d so foolishly given her. 

He learned of sacred troll rites ﹣ flaying oneself to use the skin for powerful war drums and the drinking of first blood (and he shuddered, stomach churning at the particularly descriptive imagery). He learned of  _ e’ko, _ which was pulled from the body in elaborate rituals and sealed within powerful jujus. He realized, as he read the words of Eteron, that elves had been using jujus of their own for the past six thousand years, a bastardized version they called  _ arcanum _ . 

Arcanum were immensely powerful magical items. They could easily cost more than a fleet of ships, and historically had their use enchanting instruments of war. From the descriptions and illustrations in  _ A Concise History of the Amani Epidemic, _ Rommath realized that Anasterian himself had possessed one: a large star jewel set in a golden band.

(If he had only paid attention during his lessons on the Troll Wars, perhaps he would have realized sooner.)

He wondered dimly where that ring was now. He hadn’t seen it since he and Kael had burned Anasterian’s body three years prior. Astalor had told him that there had been looters in the palace, in the early days of Wretched. Probably the ring had been a casualty.

(He made a note to investigate the treasury and the private, closed off areas of the Sunspire. Perhaps there were more.)

In a series of old field reports Rommath read about the chieftain Atai’natha, and the troll was mentioned again in  _ The Lost Codex of the Amani. _ He possessed a “magic claw” with which he performed terrible acts, flagellating himself and using his own blood to work powerful magic. It was said that a single scratch drawn by his claw was enough to enslave an elf, their minds intact but their bodies no longer their own. In  _ An Account of Voodoo _ lay a transcription of an ancient troll epic called “Moon Over the Vale,” a fantastical portrayal of a jungle battle against a neighboring tribe. Under the full moon, the trolls drew magic from their very veins to bind their enemies with “the darkest voodoo,” sealing their souls inside “fetishes” which were used by the most powerful witch doctors to decimate the rival tribe, emerging victorious and claiming the city of Zul’Gurub for themselves. 

Blood, it seemed, was the natural conduit of the magic of life, and the trolls used blood in all their most important and potent rituals. In the heat of battle, blood magic could mean the difference between life and death. Rangers reported that witch doctors and shadow hunters were the only ones capable of performing such feats, that the trolls believed the blood of “loa” (some sort of king?) and prisoners of war to be the most sacred. Rommath didn’t know what a loa was, but he doubted Vor’na had access to one. She had smashed the mana crystal into her own chest, using her own blood to keep it contained as the glass had. She had wounded him, and used his own blood to steal his magic. 

(Was this why Astalor had said there’d been murders? Was Vor’na behind them? Who else’s magic had she stolen?)

Rommath thought back to the report on his desk. Vor’na carried no items on her person, no fetishes, no enchanted daggers or wands. Nothing of note at all. He tried to remember Vor’na as she had been, the way she had moved, the state of her desk, her habits and mannerisms. Trolls often carried their magical boosters, he read, wore them on their bodies or else placed them on altars to worship. Vor’na had never really  _ worshipped _ anything other than the Light, as most of Quel’Thalas did; nor did she ever have on her person anything one might consider out of place. Rommath definitely would have noticed if his former colleague wore a lynx claw about her neck or toted around a shrunken head. She was well liked among the servants and hardly gossiped over (what little there had been was always about her penchant for Dawnblade soldiers or her outright hatred of the Lady Liadrin), and aside from her tendency to engage in unseemingly acts in bed, Rommath could find nothing  _ odd _ about her at all. 

But the way she’d stolen from him, the spell she’d worked ﹣ it didn’t feel like the one taught to him by Illidan Stormrage. Vor’na’s siphon had been vicious and quick, not the gentle, intoxicating pull from the crystal but a nefarious severing of his soul. He was sure she had learned it from the trolls, even with its modifications. 

  
  


It came to him later, as he packed up his study for the night and gathered the armful of books he’d “borrowed” from the Forbidden Library. (Being that they were forbidden, Rommath should have left them when he’d left that afternoon, but being that he was the Grand Magister, he didn’t really care.) His assistant had worn a new piece of jewelry, her hand flying to the stone at her throat when Brightwing remarked on it. It was a deep orange, like molten flame, like the fire she’d cast easily, diligently, in his hearth. The only items on Vor’na’s person were her tattered robes, shards of depleted mana crystal,  _ and a necklace. _

Vor’na had an arcanum. 

* * *

Tattooing, he thought, was a barbarous practice, but he could not deny the results. Working off old illustrations of troll witch doctors and ancient kaldorei magi (it seemed  _ Remnants of Zin-Azshari _ hadn’t been so useless as he’d once thought), Rommath had spent the better part of a week steadily working enchanted runes into his skin. Symbols of power and magical success, of focus and clarity, all painstakingly applied with nothing more than a mirror and bloodvine ink. There were no descriptions of the process by the ancient night elves, but a surprising composition by a troll historian (and Rommath had never in his life heard anything more ridiculous than an elf who studied  _ trolls, _ but there it was) entitled  _ Cannibalism, Mojo, and Voodoo _ had an entire chapter on trolls who augmented their magical ability with tattoos along crucial body parts, hand poked with special needles and blessed bloodvine ink. There were illustrations of berserkers, arms and legs thick with muscle and covered in lines; of witch doctors and hexxers and the elaborate markings following the lines of their hands, of shadow hunters and voodooists naked and ink running down the length of their legs and along the planes of their ribs. Rommath knew nothing of voodoo tattoos and he wasn’t about to hunt down a troll for the information, but  _ anything _ had to be better than the constant fatigue and night sweats and fighting the urge to pass out just from lighting his own fire. (Vor’na had taken  _ so much _ from him.)

And  _ oh. _ It was better. 

The ache was still there, the disturbing, empty throbbing of his flagging veins, the pounding in his head. But his arms tingled when he cast, there was a gentle vibrating in his chest, and the lines he’d stabbed into his skin grew warm as he produced flame, prevented the horrible overtaxing effects of mana drain. He was still bone tired and his hair still fell out in hanks, but he felt, when he was finally done,  _ better. _ The runes hummed gently in his skin, a quiet magical reserve, and Rommath had to admit (privately in his head) that perhaps not  _ all _ things troll needed to be stamped out. 

(Trolls had regenerative abilities, he remembered belatedly as he lay in bed that first night, chest wrapped in clean linen, and he nearly bit his own tongue off when Kim’dal jumped up as she always did, and stomped with her little feet over his body to flounce painfully just above his heart.)

* * *

“Rommath, what on Azeroth is that?”

“What?”

“You’re  _ bleeding.” _

And then his sister’s hand was around his wrist, around his still healing skin, and yanking. He hissed and tried to pull his arm away but his sister’s hold was iron and she did not let go. 

“Stop fussing,” she admonished. “Let me see.”

“Auriel, let  _ go.” _

She pushed back his sleeve ﹣ and pushed up, and up, and up. Her eyes widened at the red lines in his skin. “Rommath,  _ what did you do?” _

“Leave it,” he said too quickly. “The books say it has to heal naturally.” 

“What has to ﹣ Rommath, what is this?” She pulled off her glove and gingerly ran a finger over the runes, her touch bringing with it the tingling feeling of the Light. It was not pleasant on his irritated skin, but nor was it quite painful. His sister had the light touch of the priestess she’d been. “What the fuck have you been reading?”

(Rommath could not, in his entire life, recall his sister ever saying the word  _ fuck.) _

“I’ve been researching trolls,” he said evenly. His sister’s eyebrows shot up.

“Trolls.” 

“Trolls,” he repeated. “The kaldorei do it too,” he added quickly. 

_ “Why.” _

“I’m testing a theory.” 

“A theory.” 

“About life magicks and… and bodily ley lines.”

“Bodily ley l ﹣ for Light’s sake, Rommath, your entire arm’s been slashed to ribbons!” She reached for him again with glowing fingers. 

“Don’t!” He didn’t know if trolls’ regenerative abilities affected the potency of the tattoos, but  _ Cannibalism, Mojo, and Voodoo _ had been very adamant that those who underwent the ritual were not healed magically. Perhaps, if one sustained an infection, a poultice of fenberries could be applied and wrapped in silverleaf, but not before. “It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt.” 

His sister raised an doubtful eyebrow. “Rommath.” 

“Auriel.” He fixed her with his best, most tired, most pathetic look. “I am  _ trying, _ Auriel, to find a cure for our people. With Prince Kael’thas in Outland, it falls to me to scour the libraries of Azeroth, and if that means looking to our enemies for help, I will do it.” 

(He wouldn’t go marching into Tor’Watha or Zul’Aman and demand an audience with a witch doctor, but there was no harm in  _ reading _ about those witch doctors. Not if it provided a solution.)

If his sister were less restrained, he thought she might punch him. When they had been little, before their magicks had manifested, he had occasionally been on the receiving end of a smack too strong to be delivered by such a little girl. As siblings do, Auriel had thumped him for many things less serious than driving needles into skin in an amalgamation of troll ritual (he remembered a particularly painful bruise she’d given him for daring to eat the last gingerbread cookie the Winter Veil after Merhean was born). But she didn’t.

“If you get an infection, don’t come crying to me.”

“I won’t.” 

(They both knew she would heal him regardless.)

* * *

Kael proved no help either. The scrying mirror, set up with difficulty when they had left Silvermoon and manageably easier to manipulate with the thrums of arcane trilling along his runed skin, was hazy and a connection difficult to establish but Rommath did it, finally, and spent nearly four minutes trying to get his attention from the nothing at which he was staring. 

_ “Kael!” _ he bellowed, and his prince’s eyes finally slid lazily in his direction, face brightening at finding Rommath’s reflection in the mirror. 

_ “Rommath!” _ he cried, sweeping across the room and pressing his face so close to the glass that condensation gathered when he breathed.  _ “I’ve been thinking of you.” _

“Oh course. You are utterly devoted to me.” 

(If only that were true! he lamented.)

Kael rolled his eyes.  _ “It has been utter chaos since you left,” _ he said.  _ “Lord Illidan has messengers coming every other day, and Ultris is experiencing a series of setbacks ﹣ Telonicus and Pathaleon are besides themselves over it.” _

“Setbacks?” Ultris was the manaforge that had been in operation when Rommath departed. It was because of the arcane crystals mined beneath it that the forge ran at all, the generous amounts of magic forgiving to Telonicus’s endless tinkering and sometimes magnanimous mistakes. 

_ “There was a collapse in one of the mine shafts, and it took an entire third of the forge with it. All that work, all that  _ **_mana_ ** _ ﹣ lost to the Nether!”  _

That was troubling news. Without the manaforge, there would be no crystals to send home to Silvermoon. “What have they done to fix it?”

Kael rubbed his temples.  _ “Pathaleon has sped up the construction of Duro on his own so that Telonicus may assess the damage quickly. He assures me that by transferring… some engine or other, I don’t remember the term, from Tempest Keep, he can have the manaforge back to full capacity within a few weeks.” _

Rommath sighed in relief. Perhaps they weren’t terribly useless without him there after all. “Good.” And after a moment ﹣ “Are you there now?” The walls, gleaming in smooth lavenders and mauves, were a sharp contrast to the rough stone of the Area 52 inn.

And a grin split across Kael’s face.  _ “No! Didn’t I tell you? We have finally left that dirty goblin town for the finery of Tempest Keep!” _ The image shook as Kael seized the mirror and spun it around, showing off the alien architecture and soft fuschia magelights, quickly enough that it made Rommath dizzy.  _ “These are my private chambers. Aren’t they marvellous? And look, out this window  _ ﹣  _ see how much work has been done on Duro!” _

He couldn’t see much past the glare of the sun, but the manaforge was massive, no longer a skeleton in the violet dirt but a solid and distinct building bustling with activity. Sunfury laborers worked in tight units, assembling stone and pipe and the strange starship technologies harvested from the Keep, and every few feet were ﹣

“Kael.”

_ “Yes, Rommath?” _

“Why are there goblins at Manaforge Duro?”

The image shook again as Kael turned the mirror once more, setting it down and sitting before it.  _ “Oh, Pathaleon contracted them,” _ he said dismissively.  _ “I suppose they’re good for something after all.” _

Rommath pinched the bridge of his nose and inhaled deeply. Exhaled. “Kael. The  _ cost _ ﹣”

_ “It’s fine. They aren’t getting any work otherwise. They’ll take what we give them.” _ But Rommath hadn’t only been talking about the gold. 

“Kael,” he said again. “You can’t trust gobins. You can’t trust  _ anyone _ who isn’t Illidan and the Lady Vashj.” (Truthfully, the naga witch deeply unsettled him, and he suspected her sharp, repitilian eyes could pry even the most innocent falsehood from one’s thoughts and banish it, screaming, into the Twisting Nether. But she had helped them when no one else would, had broken them out of the dungeons in Dalaran and brought them to Illidan Stormrage. They owed her a great debt.)

_ “It’s fine, Rommath. You’re starting to sound like Astalor.” _

He sighed. He would have to hope that Telonicus, as Pathaleon’s superior, had planned for the oversight. “I need to ask you something,” he said abruptly, changing tactics and the subject.

_ “Ask away.” _

“Whatever happened to your father’s star jewel ring?”

_ “What?” _

“The blue star jewel he wore on his right hand. What happened to it?”

_ “Why, Rommath, if you wanted jewelry you need not ask in such a roundabout way. There is a fantastic purple stone in the Ultris mines. I’ll have one cut and polished for you.” _

Even a world away, Kael was impossible. “I don’t want jewelry, you idiot.” (Though a part of him flushed at the notion of his prince giving him such a gift. He had given Neeluu jewelry too.) “I want the star jewel.”

Kael frowned.  _ “I don’t believe there are any star jewels here. I’ll have to ask Telonicus, he keeps track of what the Sunfuries harvest from the mines.” _

It was the free flowing Netherstorm mana, Rommath knew, distracting the man. It didn’t make him any less annoyed.  _ “Kael’thas,” _ he hissed.  _ “Listen _ to me. Your father possessed an arcanum in the form of a blue star jewel. What happened to it after his death.”

_ “An arcanum? Rommath, I would think, if my father owned such a thing, that I would have claimed it for myself. You remember how the Presence of Sight was the only reason we were able to collapse the Sunwell.” _ The Presence of Sight was an old, holy book rumored to have been written by the mage Alodi. It possessed tremendous power, the most valuable item in the Magisters’ Sanctum’s collection, and it had been burned to ash in the destruction, its power collapsing in on itself and going out in a flash of light so hot it had scorched Kael’s robes. Before then, Rommath had not even known that arcanum could be destroyed. 

(Without its power, the corrupted magics of the Sunwell would have surely killed them before the first incantation.)

“And there are no others? Not even in the treasury?”

_ “No. I would have retrieved them myself.” _

Rommath swore. He  _ knew _ Anasterian had possessed a star jewel ring, and he was sure, from the books he had devoured feverishly in the weeks since Vor’na attacked him, that it was an arcanum. Perhaps it had been lost, or stolen. Perhaps Kael’s memory was not what it was, muddled so with the energies of the Netherstorm. But he had already combed the treasury vaults and the Sunspire Palace for any suspicious, out of place items and come up empty handed. 

_ “Don’t think I didn’t have the same idea,” _ his prince said gently.  _ “But with Quel’Thalas as it is now, I don’t know if you’d even be able to power it.” _

“You question my ability?”

_ “Never. I am simply concerned that, should you find such an item, it will kill you.”  _ The naked worry on Kael’s face made Rommath’s heart thump. He wished he was back there. Wished he could lay his hand on Kael’s cheek, draw him close for a kiss. 

(He would never put himself in harm’s way, if it meant hurting Kael.)

“I can’t die,” he blustered, puffing his chest. (And oh, his tender healing skin screamed in protest.) “And neither can you,” he added. “Not while I have any say in the matter.”

_ “My life is in your hands,” _ Kael chuckled. He rested his chin on one hand, his eyes meeting Rommath’s through the mirror. By the Light, Rommath loved that smile.  _ “Dalah’norfal,” _ he murmured,  _ “I really miss you. It has been too quiet with you gone.” _

“And I you.” His throat was suddenly tight.

_ “Please take care,” _ Kael bade him.  _ “I know how you are, and you will push yourself until you collapse. Rest often, conserve your strength. You cannot do it all.” _

By the Sunwell and Silvermoon herself, Rommath loved him. He would not waste time, when they next reunited. He would take his prince in his arms and press their lips together, tender and soft as he’d always wanted, and never again would Kael not know the depths of Rommath’s affection.

“And you. I worry for you, my friend.”

* * *

Dalaran had books on blood magic, but they were studies of the orcs who had marched through the Dark Portal, their magics not based in the arcane, relying on demon intervention, and Rommath had no need of it. Tomes on death magic had carried sections on the power of blood, but nothing had ever properly blended the life force to the arcane the way Vor’na had. He wondered if she’d read those books, or if all her knowledge stemmed from the trolls. How had she managed, priestess as she had been, to perform such powerful magic? Was it only because of her arcanum pendant? Rommath had never seen her without it ﹣ where had she gotten it? Had she killed a mage of great skill and bound his magic to the stone herself (and Rommath shuddered to think Vor’na had done such a thing, after reading the descriptions in the Forbidden books) or stolen it from a witch doctor? Or, as assistant to the Grand Magister Quel’Thalas, had she simply purchased one with treasury gold, citing some feasibly plausible need? 

He didn’t think he’d ever know. It was impossible to talk to Vor’na now, and the last time he’d tried all she had done was beg for mana crystals. (He dreamed of her sometimes, with her prominent fangs and sunken cheeks and the hoarse screech of  _ gimme gimme gimme.) _

He sighed. Pulled his schedule close and tried to focus. A meeting with Fira of the Enchanters’ Guild ﹣ she wanted an increase in the crystals allotted to the guild, he recalled ﹣ and another with Bemarrin of the Blacksmiths’ Guild. (What did he want again?) And he was constantly listening for the summons from the Hall of Portals ﹣ Kael had promised to send a new shipment of crystals, and Rommath trusted no one but himself to receive it. They had discussed, with the opening of Manaforge Duro, the possibility of increasing production. With more crystals to siphon from, reconstruction of Silvermoon could proceed in earnest, and more forces could be dispatched along the Scar to deal with the undead. Quel’Danas was still dangerously uninhabitable; it was one of Rommath’s top priorities. Regardless of the collapsed Sunwell, the isle was still a holy place. It had to be cleansed, and they currently had not the strength for it. 

There came a knock at his door ﹣  _ knockknockknockknock, _ with a jiggle of the handle. “Enter!” he called, glaring at the schedule. He was supposed to have an early dinner with the rest of the Triumvirate and Lady Liadrin at five bells. 

“Grand Magister.” His assistant bustled in with a pinched, harried look and bowed quickly. “Pardon the interruption, but I’ve just received word from Captain Bachi. There’s been an incident at the Hall of Portals.”

Rommath’s head snapped up. “What?”

“The shipment from Prince Kael’thas, sir. It arrived less than five minutes ago﹣”

“I was to be notified the  _ moment _ it came through﹣!”

“I can’t speak as to that, I’ll reprimand the Master of Portals as quick as I can, but sir. The Wretched. They knew it was coming.”

Rommath froze.  _ “What.” _ Shot out of his chair and raced towards the door, the poor girl hot on his heels. 

“The mages are fine,” she gasped, “and Bachi and his paladins took the thieves into custody. They’re unsure about the shipment ﹣ they think some of the crystals shattered.”

Rommath swore. “The Wretched. Do we know who they are?” He didn’t think he’d run faster in his life without a shambling corpse in his wake.

“I don’t know, sir. I left to retrieve you.”

  
  


The Hall of Portals was all smooth dark tiles and gossamer curtains, and was one of the nicer public areas of the Spire. It wasn’t so nice now, with glass on the floor and redfaced, sweaty paladins. One curtain had been torn clean off its rod, laying in a stained puddle on the floor. Rommath did not want to know what stained it.

_ “What happened?” _ he thundered. Bachi, one of Liadrin’s paladins, had remained after the Wretched had been subdued, and hurried over. Someone had yanked a handful of hair from its high tail in the scuffle; it flopped over his face, nearly but not quite obscuring the bruise blooming over his eye. The blood vessels had broken ﹣ he would need to see a healer ﹣ and blood trickled from his nose. 

“Wretched, Grand Magister. They were waiting.” 

“How did they know?!”

“Not sure, sir.” His eyes darted to the portal masters, huddled in one corner. Dropping his voice, he murmured, “I suspect one of them is behind it. A handful have family who’ve gone Wretched.”

Rommath suppressed a snarl of frustration. There was a dedicated team of magisters working round the clock to understand and reverse Wretchedness, and some idiot with a mana crystal thought they were “helping.” 

“No one leaves here until they have been questioned!” he shouted. “I want all your licenses ﹣ I will be conducting a thorough background check! Anyone with ties to the Wretched will be dismissed, effective immediately!”

“Grand Magister!” It was Narinth, Master of Portals. She, too, looked to have been involved in the scuffle. “Surely that’s an overreaction! We’ve all been affected by﹣”

“You and your mages were the only ones who knew this shipment was coming!” he bellowed. “One of yours let them in! Bachi! Detain them until someone confesses.”

“You can’t shut down the portals like that!” Narinth protested.

Rommath nearly laughed. “National security was just severely compromised and you’re telling the Grand Magister what he can’t do?” He scowled instead. “The safety of Quel’Thalas takes priority.” 

Narinth did not argue, lips pursed. 

“Where is the shipment?” 

“In the back room, Grand Magister. There was no time to move it.” 

“Erindae! Open a portal.”

His assistant did not ask where. She already knew. (He’d been apprehensive of the girl, despite Astalor’s glowing recommendation, but she kept her mouth shut and followed instructions, and Rommath could appreciate that.) He would send word to Astalor to meet with Bachi and question the portal masters. In a perfect world, he’d ask his sister (who would roll her eyes and spend more time treating superficial wounds than actually asking questions), but she’d been dispatched to the East Sanctum to quell a horde of Scourge threatening its reconstruction.

Minor setbacks. 

He levitated all thirty crates through the portal and stepped through after, squashed between the stack of them and the wall. His study was not large, was not made for receiving visitors and packages, but it was the most secure place in the city save for the treasury, and the treasury had been broken into before. The mana crystals would be safe here.

His assistant smacked right into his back in the new cramped space, stepping back so quickly she nearly fell back through the portal. “My apologies, Grand Magister, I didn’t﹣”

“Start counting,” Rommath cut her off, snapping the portal closed with such fury he singed the air. Leaving her, he stomped over to the closet and set about enlarging the space inside, a new vault for the precious treasure.

* * *

“You made a pocket dimension?” Astalor stood at the threshold of the closet, head craned to see all the new space. Heavily warded and fortified, in addition to the wards on the study door, would have to be enough. The Wretched certainly wouldn’t be getting in there, but the same could not be said of Spire employees. Rommath trusted few people in his study, and only Astalor with the knowledge of how to undo the new wards. His assistant knew where the crystals were stored, and even that he’d put them in a pocket dimension, but she could not access them; and Brightwing and Theron he told nothing at all. They were rangers. They shouldn’t be in his study in the first place. 

(He debated informing Liadrin, but decided in the end that should she require access she could ask Astalor.)

In addition to the thirty crates of small crystals for distribution through the city, Kael had also sent four large, long boxes. Upon prying them open, he found crystals nearly as tall as he was.

(They were green, and he found that odd, but he had never seen such a large chunk of mana before, and perhaps that was what happened when made to that size.)

“Yes. My office is not secure, and apparently neither is the Hall of Portals.” And if it required a little blood magic to work the spell, he would gladly do it. He had given himself worse injuries, using blood against the Scourge. He’d survive.

Astalor was looking at him oddly. “No, I suppose not.” He gestured to the green crystals. “What are we going to do with those?”

“We’ll find something.” The magisters went through mana crystals at an alarming rate. Rommath planned to install these new crystal towers in the Sanctum and the Enchanters’ Guild. He would find a place for the other two, and hope it solved the problem.

“Could we have one?” his friend asked suddenly. “In the Hall of Blood?”

“Kael told me he was working on a solution to your problem.” Many of the former priests no longer believed in or used the Light, but the desperation brought on by the withdrawal of mana made them erratic, bad-tempered, and reckless. Those that could still call upon the Light’s warmth found themselves overtaxed, treating too many injuries in the attempt for both healer and patient to sate the thirst. Kael had promised to deliver a power source, and Rommath had faith. “But I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. It would be safer in the Hall than out on the street.”

(And that was another problem. There weren’t enough mana crystals for the common people. Perhaps Kael had sent these strange green crystals as a sort of community siphon.)

“Why are they green? Were the others?”

“Some of them.” Rommath didn’t know. “It might just be an effect of Netherstorm mining.” He would ask Kael, or Telonicus if he could get ahold of him. 

  
  


_ “I don’t know, Rommath. I’m just a numbers man.” _

Rommath bit back a powerful urge to roll his eyes. “Do you ever look at anything beyond your numbers?”

_ “Capernian’s ass,” _ Telonicus supplied, completely straight faced in the scrying mirror. Sometimes Rommath wondered whether the man possessed a normal sense of humor.

This time he did roll his eyes. “Thank you,” he droned. “I’m sure Capernian’s ass can tell me about green crystals.”

His friend frowned. He had just come from the manaforge when Rommath had contacted him, dusty and his hands covered in grease. Telonicus, he knew, liked to work with his hands, and did not trust others to execute the more serious and minute details of his plans.  _ “I don’t know when you’d be able to talk to her. She’s often holed up in the astronomy tower with Solarian. I don’t see her until she comes to bed, usually.” _

“Who the fuck is Solarian?”

Telonicus scratched his nose, leaving behind a black streak.  _ “Some astromancer. They’re working on portals, I think. Kael doesn’t want to use Shattrath anymore.” _

“Well does this Solarian know why the crystals are green?”

Shrug.  _ “How should I know, Rommath? My job is engineering, not mining.” _

Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe the color meant nothing. (But the mana he knew had always been blue…) It had just felt…  _ off, _ when he’d pulled from one. Like he was back in the Netherstorm with electricity in his veins. 

“Have you used them?”

_ “Used what?” _

“Those green crystals, you idiot. Focus!”

( _ Focusing _ had never been Telonicus’s specialty, even before Netherstorm.)

_ “Oh. Yes, I have.” _ He blinked, back in the present and not thinking of his engines or forges.  _ “They’ve got a zing to them,” _ he remarked.  _ “Like those sour candies we used to eat.” _

Sour. That was a good word for the mana he’d siphoned from the green crystal. A little acrid, leaving an almost chemical aftertaste on the tongue.

Maybe it wasn’t as pure as the others. That had to be it. With the troubles at the Ultris mines, impurities were bound to make their way in. It hadn’t had the sluggish feel of the corrupted Sunwell. It was probably fine.

“Wash your face,” he barked. “And tell Kael to contact me. I’ve been trying to reach him for hours.”

_ “I’m not your servant,” _ Telonicus said mildly. Rommath knew he’d do it. He wasn’t the sort to dig in his heels over something like that.

“Thank you.” And with a final nod, he severed the connection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The TCG and Hearthstone are a great resource for elves, y'all. 
> 
> I did so much research for this chapter. At one point I had twenty-seven tabs open, just for the first scene. I based the tattoo needles and style on tebori tattoos (and THAT was a fun ride, researching traditional tattoo methods). I also admit to retconning a portion of this fic so that Rommath (in the past) does not have his tattoos until this chapter. Whatever it takes to retain magic, amirite?
> 
> Also, if you've never had a cat stomp on your freshly tattooed chest because they have no regard for your personal space, you're missing out. 
> 
> I also have a ton of New Age ads on my browser now thanks to the ton of research I had to do for Vor'na's necklace. I couldn't decide in the end if I wanted it to be amber, carnelian, or citrine - just know that it is a dark orange stone. Speaking of stones, the "star jewel" of Anasterian is modeled off of a star sapphire. 
> 
> Next chapter's gonna be a doozy! Get the tissues!


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Astalor seeks Rommath's opinion, and Kael doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter covers a large span of time, and not every scene is consecutive.

Astalor shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He was trying very hard to let Rommath form his own opinion. To not bog him down with rushed explanations and apologies. Pink stained his ears. 

His friend had caught him as he’d left for the day, dispensing instructions to his assistant and warding the office doors. Pulled him aside, asked if they could talk. Rommath’s mind had run in a thousand directions at once, immediately suspecting the worst. Another theft, bandages linens and salves or bread or… (He refused to entertain the thought of stolen mana crystals.) Another assault by the Wretched, who had already tried stealing the large green crystal he’d hesitantly installed within Wayfarer’s Rest, accessible to the needy and the drained. Another murder ﹣ another mage lost. But Astalor brought with him none of that, and to Rommath’s surprise had seized his hand and pressed into it two small circular objects, clinking together gently. Rings.

“What do you think?” 

Rommath studied the little bands, thin loops of plain gold. There bore no adornment, no jewels or engravings save the stamp alongside the inside, bearing the initials of a jeweler who kept shop on the Walk of Elders. (A common shop, for the commonfolk.) Rommath didn’t think Astalor had ever been inside a jewelry shop before. He had the money to commission the court jeweler (the late court jeweler’s son, he amended grimly) if he desired baubles and jewels. 

When his friend and his sister had informed him, with soft, fond words, that they wished to marry, and sought his approval, Rommath had not been surprised. A blind man could see how they loved each other, how Astalor’s perpetually tense muscles relaxed within Auriel’s proximity, how a gentle look soothed the fire flickering dangerously in Auriel’s eyes as they discussed Scourge assaults and Wretched crimes. Anyone would notice how Astalor met her in the morning, he just beginning his day and hers carrying over from the day before, the tenderness with which he passed her coffee and the way their fingers brushed and lingered as she took hold of the cup. When Auriel left with the other knights to reclaim the surrounding villages from the undead, Astalor fretted, his anxiety worsening and his temper flaring until she trooped back into the city, tired but victorious; and when his work with Liadrin or Rommath kept him awake and stressed, it was Auriel who would lay a warm hand on his cheek, infusing all her knowledge of the Light into the touch and pulling the worry from his bones. They gazed at each other as they looked at no one else, and Rommath readily gave his blessing, wished them every happiness they could find together in this terrible new world. 

The rings Astalor had given him were not fit for a man of his status. Lord Bloodsworn and his future Lady, which Astalor was and Auriel would be, should drip with star jewels and rubies, with pearls painstakingly harvested from the Quel’Danas murlocs and custom designed gems. Rommath had met Astalor’s father only a handful of times in his youth, and the man had worn jewels as fine as any king’s. Any noblewoman would have been insulted by the unadorned bands sitting prettily in Rommath’s palm.

But Rommath knew his sister. Knew she would never accept nor wear such an ostentatious ring coveted by the wealthy elite. Truthfully, Rommath was unsure if she would wear this plain ring at all ﹣ it was still a loop of gold, a precious and powerful metal. (He did not say this to Astalor, whose nervousness was a tangible thing at his side.) He tried to approach the manner as Auriel might, and in so doing, gained a new appreciation for his friend. The jeweler he’d bought from was one of the newer shops, run by a man who’d settled in the city when his village had been overrun by the undead. It was good, quality work ﹣ the jeweler clearly knew his craft ﹣ and the shop had a reputation for accepting barters in lieu of money, as he had in the country. It could not have been expensive. Even malachite was a cheap, common gem that Quel’Thalas’s poorest could afford, the deep green mimicking the more rare emeralds for those who liked to posture, and Astalor had not purchased (if he had indeed  _ purchased _ rather than traded) a gem, any gem. The rings were nondescript, not likely to snag on clothes or interfere with hard work, and austere enough to not attract the attention of bandits or thieves. He could easily picture his sister slipping the band on her slim finger. 

“Very nice,” Rommath said finally, and beside him Astalor deflated, letting out an audible sigh of relief. “You did good, Astalor. Did you really go to a shop?”

His friend nodded. “The shopkeep was  _ flabbergasted,” _ he confessed. “Kept telling me they had nothing good enough for a noble.” (And Rommath didn’t doubt that. No wellbred noble would ever wear jewelry made by a common country elf.) “I had to tell them I was buying for a priestly couple before he stopped pushing his most expensive jewels.”

“And that worked?” Rommath laughed. He had known Vandellor and his fair share of priests. Some wore jewels every bit as fine as any noble’s.

“It helped.” 

Rommath passed the rings back to him, grinning. “My sister is lucky to be marrying such a thoughtful man as you.”

* * *

Quel’Thalas had not had much to celebrate in the years since the Scourge. Parties were almost unheard of, and gifts were rare. Gone were the days of drinking for the fun of it, of dropping exorbitant amounts of gold on rare, imported foods and buying whatever caught one’s eye. The people could not afford it.

Couples had come together in the aftermath of the undead invasion, brought close by the horrors of war, by need of comfort, by the terrifying thoughts of  _ what if this is the last chance. _ Their weddings had been nothing special, and Rommath couldn’t recall a single one of them. A printing in the newspaper, perhaps, because all things good deserved to be known in this new world of suffering, or a quiet meal among family and close friends. Cloth-of-gold, the traditional choice of wedding attire, had been replaced with well dyed or enchanted silks and linens. The truly skilled could bring to life the golden hues with no metallics in the dye at all. 

But no one who had come together had been as important as Astalor. No one had else had been descended from an ancient line whose place was at the king’s right hand, and no one else had the money that Astalor as Lord Bloodsworn possessed. Rommath hadn’t known exactly what to expect, but his friend did not disappoint. Their wedding poured money into a bleeding economy, while still somehow staying true to all the values his sister held dear.

Musicians were hired ﹣ not skilled courtly peoples but what seemed to be random folk with an ear for music, dressed in their nicest clothes. They were not the classic, refined sounds Rommath had grown up with but common songs from the country, the sort that made one’s foot tap unconsciously to the beat. The sort that got people up and moving. Perhaps his sister had grown up with such music, at the docks of Sunsail. And with the musicians came the parlor magicians, too clumsy at magic to be of any real aid to the rebuilding of the city but skilled enough to produce arcane bubbles and faerie lights, to swallow fire unharmed and breathe it out in a dragon’s roar. Rommath had always looked down on such mages ﹣ they didn’t practice  _ real _ magic, in his opinion ﹣ but for those who were not capable of attending schools or hiring tutors, they served the vital purpose of bring magic to the common people, of dispelling the illusions that magic was too dangerous or too powerful to harness. They made magic accessible to the people who had none of their own, and Rommath had never properly appreciated it until now.

The parlor magicians created elaborate ice sculptures along the city, and which at the end of the night provided clean, filtered drinking water as they melted to those who had none. The food had been the most strenuous task. Auriel herself had distributed flyers calling for anyone skilled in cooking, with promises of pay and a place to sleep for the duration, and the call was answered by the thousands. Anyone who had ever so much as poured a glass of wine seemed to be there, some bringing their own supplies and others relying on the city, and Auriel found a place for them all. The men and women had made the journey to Silvermoon were charged, at the end of the day, with returning home in carts laden with foodstuffs, for the food wasn’t only for Auriel and Astalor’s wedding. The conscripted cooks had in fact been hired to prepare food for  _ Quel’Thalas, _ and were sent home with bags of flour and spices and racks of meats, crates of vegetables, and gold, all paid for out of the Bloodsworn coffers. Astalor had emptied much of his family’s vaults in the aftermath of the Scourge, but this was something else entirely. This was probably the most caring, selfless thing he had ever done, and at the end of the night, glass in hand and warmth pooling in his belly, Rommath was  _ proud _ of him. He had returned from the Outland not so long ago to a drained and depressed people eking out a miserable existence, and in this one night all of that was forgotten. People laughed. They danced and sang, and gorged themselves at the food tables spread across the city and at the mana crystals installed in the common areas, and for one brilliant, beautiful night, they were  _ happy.  _

* * *

“I can’t believe you didn’t come home.” He was scowling, and he knew he should compose himself, but it bothered him. It wasn’t as if some noble had gotten married, some titled no name elf just powerful enough to warrant an appearance from the crown prince.  _ Astalor _ had gotten married, and even if he hadn’t been Kael’s childhood friend, the entwined history of their families demanded Kael’s presence. 

(And the worst part, Rommath thought, was that he understood why Kael hadn’t. Travel to and from the Outland was highly restricted, and Capernian hadn’t yet been able to construct a portal strong enough to withstand the unknowns of the Twisting Nether and the dangers of its freeflowing mana; and risking the inability to return for what amounted to a party was not wise at all.)

_ “I have my hands full here, Rommath. You know that.” _ The Kael in the scrying mirror looked as though he hadn’t been sleeping. Sleep had never been difficult in the Netherstorm, in Rommath’s experience. The mana humming in his veins had never been shy about lulling him into dreamland. 

“You could have left Kayn Sunfury in charge,” Rommath retorted, naming one of the generals who, like many who’d followed them to Outland, had taken the name of their elite Sunfury army. “Or Sanguinar.”

_ “Kayn Sunfury is no longer here, and Lord Sanguinar _ ﹣ _ ” _

His ears flicked. “What do you mean Kayn’s ‘no longer here’?” His tone was sharp. “He can’t be dead, he’s﹣”

_ “He isn’t dead, Rommath.” _ And the way Kael spoke, as if Rommath couldn’t possibly understand, as if Rommath’s intelligence was in question, stung. Kael had never spoken to him like that before.  _ “He has left for the Black Temple with a handful of Sunfuries. Lord Illidan requested it.” _

The way he said it raised an alarm in Rommath’s brain. It sounded an awful lot like Kayn had  _ defected.  _ (But Illidan Stormrage wouldn’t accept a deserter, would he? And why would the man have abandoned them in the first place?)

“Is everything alright?” he asked after a moment, eyes tracing the line of Kael’s frown. “Do you need me to come back?”

_ “No,” _ Kael said immediately.  _ “No. I need you in Silvermoon. How much did this wedding cost, anyway?” _ The change in topic was an obvious one, meant to distract. _ “I know you’re no Sanguinar but it seems, from the way you’ve described it, to have wasted a lot of gold.” _

(Rommath told himself he was  _ not _ offended by Kael calling the wedding of their close friend and his sister a  _ waste of gold. _ He wasn’t. In Kael’s position, away in Outland and without all the facts, he would have thought the same, he told himself.)

“Nothing,” he said evenly. “Unlike the rest of the nobility, Astalor isn’t hoarding his gold. He paid for it all out of his own pocket. He didn’t borrow from the crown.”

But Kael didn’t seem to be listening, gaze focused on something Rommath couldn’t see just past the mirror. 

“Kael?”

_ “I have to go,” _ his prince said abruptly. He hadn’t heard Rommath at all.  _ “I expect better judgement in the future, Rommath.” _ And before Rommath could protest, Kael cut the connection. 

Something must be bothering him, Rommath decided. Kael had been unfocused and flippant since the mirror rippled to life. Next time, he vowed, he would press. Figure out what was wrong. And in the meantime, he would do some digging. 

Sighing, Rommath screwed his face up before attempting the spell to contact Capernian. Her gossiping had always irritated him, but he needed it now, and lately it wasn’t the gossip that bothered him. That woman she had partnered with, Solarian, the one helping her research pathways through the Nether, made Rommath uneasy. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but she did. He had seen her only once, over Capernian’s shoulder as they’d talked. Face covered by a veil and hair hidden beneath an opaque, gauzy scarf, she bore no identifying features aside from her painfully thin frame and startling eyes. They were dark, darker than Rommath had ever seen, and burned with an intensity unmatched by even the most vicious wildfire. It was a look he’d seen on his sister, when the Light flared behind her irises, but unlike his sister, Solarian’s light gave no heat. No warmth. If he hadn’t seen the undead for himself, he would have sworn she was a walking corpse. 

But Capernian gave him no more answers than Kael had.  _ “I don’t know what to tell you, Rommath,”  _ she said distractedly, crossing out some equation or other and chewing on one of her nails in frustration.  _ “All I know is that a couple dozen Sunfuries left early in the week. I sent them through the portal myself. And thank you, by the way, for commenting that I’ve finally made a usable portal that doesn’t kill the traveler,” she added crossly. “You know how difficult it is to get portals to cooperate here.” _

“They took a portal?” His friend would not have opened one had not Kael not ordered it…

_ “That general, Kayn,” _ she said dismissively,  _ “had a summons from Lord Stormrage. I couldn’t exactly say no.” _

Rommath knew that Illidan Stormrage had his own army ﹣ he and Kael had made use of it multiple times, even if he didn’t agree with the inclusion of some of its members. He also didn’t think that Stormrage was recruiting. He’d never received a summons from the man, now that he thought about it. He didn’t think Stormrage knew Thalassian, and his Common was questionable at best. Perhaps some sort of magical message then? 

(But the fact remained, still, that Stormrage had never  _ summoned _ anyone except Kael.)

There came a noise behind Capernian, and when she turned, Rommath saw the dark, veiled figure of Solarian, eyebrows knitted together as she delicately fingered one of the strange green mana crystals. 

_ “Those aren’t for portalling.” _ And Capernian was speaking to the other woman, not to him now.  _ “Those are my personal supply. Just put them somewhere if they’re in your way.” _ Solarian did not indicate that she’d heard Capernian, but after a moment she pushed the stack of green crystals further down the table, the glass scraping softly against the surface, and unrolled a large parchment that she anchored at both ends with an astrolabe and a large purple-black crystal. 

“What’s that?” Rommath asked.

_ “Hmm? Oh, Solarian and I are attempting to map the Nether. We’ve learned through trial and error which paths are safest, but they don’t really stay in place like they do on Azeroth.”  _ She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.  _ “It’s over your head, don’t worry about it.” _

(And while portalling had never been something Rommath truly understood, the crafting of paths through space and the blending of realities, it still hurt to have Capernian dismiss him so. He was just as intelligent as her and more powerful in other ways besides. He didn’t have to understand how portals worked to be able to use them.)

Frowning, he said his goodbyes and severed the connection. His hand found Kim’dal, snoozing on a corner of his desk, and he ran his fingers through her soft fur lightly. She let out a quiet “mrrp” and stretched, all four little limbs sticking straight out, before snapping back into herself and curling into a ball, head twisted upside down and paw on her face. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. 

(If his sister and Astalor hadn’t insisted they needed no gifts, he thought perhaps he would have given them a cat of their own. Not to spy on them, as he did others, but simply a living creature to pour all their love and care into, a companion to soothe and entertain and love them back. He didn’t know if they would ever have children, or if indeed they wanted them, but he thought Astalor could use the calm his own Kim’dal gave him and Auriel sometimes needed the silly distraction feline antics provided. But they had insisted, and instead Rommath had made a large donation in their name to the city’s children’s home, and his sister had cried at the package they’d sent in return, describing all the ways that money had helped and drawings of things they could now afford to do. The amount of children who were just thankful for more meals broke his heart.)

“Kim’dal,” he murmured, ignoring that she wasn’t even listening to him. “What is going on over there?”

* * *

It only got stranger. As the months and eventually  _ years _ wore on, Kael reached out to him less. Was quick to deny his requests to return, always with a wave of his hand and a quick  _ I’ve got it covered, Rommath. I  _ _ am _ _ the prince. _ And it wasn’t that Rommath didn’t trust Kael, it was just that…

(Kayn Sunfury had left, and Kael had lied to him about it. Left with three dozen of their finest Sunfury warriors, and Kael had  _ lied _ about it. He consistently refused to answer questions about the woman Solarian, saying  _ That’s Capernian’s business, Rommath. I see nothing wrong with her. _ And when rioting broke out among Sunfury ranks, when some nobody named Voren’thal had stormed the Keep to shout at their prince before spiriting away  _ twenty percent of their forces _ to Shattrath, Rommath had only learned about it from Telonicus, and only in passing.  _ There might not be as many mana crystals this time, _ he had said,  _ since all those miners took off to Terokkar.) _

Rommath was  _ worried. _ It wasn’t like Kael to keep secrets from him (or at all, if he were honest), and no amount of embarrassment could have stopped his prince from bemoaning the  _ traitors _ and the setbacks. Embarrassment had never stopped him before. 

And then there was the matter of sickness sweeping through the city. Shaking and retching and fevers, all harbingers of Wretchedness, but affecting the citizens indiscriminately. Unlike Wretchedness, which seized upon the most powerful and slowly caused them to waste away, this sickness seemingly chose its victims at random, burning through the veins and leaving a foul, acrid taste in the mouth. Rommath caught it, and so did Astalor, and the strangest thing of all was that, even as he was sweating and shivering and wanting to die, he felt  _ alive. _ Magic sparked at his fingers unbidden, and every spell made his blood sing. It seemed to affect, after a time, every elf in Silvermoon, from the oldest magister to the smallest child. 

(His sister told him, after that first terrible week, that there was something different about him.  _ Your eyes don’t look the same, _ she’d said worriedly, placing her warm palm against his forehead. He wasn’t sure he knew what she was talking about, but sometimes when he looked in the mirror, the glow in his eyes was distinctly  _ green. _ But then he’d blink, and they’d look blue again, and he was left wondering if he’d seen anything off in the first place.)

But he could put all that out of his mind right now, because his assistant had informed him that  _ something _ had just arrived from the Outland, under armed guard, and upon entering the pocket dimension that was his study’s closet, he found eight Sunfuries in full plate, and in the center of them all a large, strange being made entirely of light. Of  _ Light, _ he realized belatedly. The noise it made, like the tinkling of bells, sounded to him like someone trying very hard to be strong. 

“What’s this?” he asked, skin aglow in the Light of the creature. 

“A naaru, sir,” answered a Sunfury. Rommath didn’t know his name. “Prince Kael’thas has given us instructions to install it in the Hall of Blood for the order.” 

“A naa ﹣ the Hall of Blood? Why?” Confusion colored his features, and behind him his assistant made a noise that sounded vaguely like  _ what on Azeroth. _

The Sunfury busied himself with issuing orders to his subordinates, who carefully checked each seam of the arcane container the creature ﹣ the  _ nauru _ ﹣ had been shipped in. “The solution to your problem, sir. Prince Kael’thas thinks this will strengthen the blood knights.”

Oh.  _ Oh. _ Long ago Rommath had brought to Kael’s attention the prevalence of fatigue amongst the new paladin order. Drained of mana, of hope, and strength, Wretchedness ran high among recruits, and even those ordained in the scarlet and black plate of the order were not exempted. Kael had promised to find an answer, and while Liadrin needled him for progress after the fall of every fall, Rommath had heard nothing more on the subject. 

“What is it?” he asked, waving a hand at his assistant and after a moment hearing the distinctive rushing water sound of a portal. (He never went through the streets anymore, with the mana crystals, and he would not do it with this strange new cargo either.) Peering at the creature, he saw that it was almost built like a very elaborate, living rune. It had the vague approximation of a face, with little circles that looked like eyes and a triangular opening that looked like a mouth. It had what looked like legs and arms, but it did not use them, instead levitating gently several feet above the ground. It was perhaps seven or eight feet tall, and around it danced solid discs of Light that fluttered when it emitted noise. (They looked like wings, Rommath thought, as he ushered the Sunfury contingent towards Erindae’s portal.)

“A naaru,” the soldier repeated. “Use it as you would a mana crystal. It doesn’t feel pain.”

“It’s alive?!” his assistant squeaked. 

“Of course it’s alive.”

“How are we supposed to siph﹣”

“Use it,” the soldier cut in, pronouncing every word clearly, “as you would a mana crystal. The process is the same.” 

Illidan Stormrage had taught them how to pull mana from animals, before they’d stumbled into the Netherstorm and learned to craft the crystals. Rommath didn’t know if a naaru was necessarily an animal, but… it  _ did _ possess a powerful mana reservoir. He could almost smell it, the power radiating from the creature. And it was made of Light, he reasoned, or at least could wield it as a tangible thing. It was reassuring, almost as if the Light itself had materialized there in Silvermoon and blessed the city anew. 

“Will that hurt it?” He didn’t think he could bring himself to cause harm to an actual avatar of Light. Many elves had lost their faith in the aftermath of the Scourge, and while Rommath’s had never been particularly strong, he still believed. 

The Sunfury shrugged. “It doesn’t feel pain. We pulled from it several times to make the trip.” And the creature chimed softly, as if in agreement. (Was it  _ sentient? _ Rommath wondered wildly. Stormrage had never siphoned mana from an intelligent creature. Doing so was something akin to… murder, if the bodies of the drained magisters had been anything to go by.

No, Kael would not condone murdering of a sentient creature for its mana. The deaths at the hands of Wretched would not have affected him so if he had.)

“It has Light inside,” the Sunfury told him, as a group of paladins started to form in the order’s main hall. “It should stave off the exhaustion.” And then, bowing smartly, “We must get back, Grand Magister. The Grand Astromancer cannot sustain the portal for long.”

“Grand Astromancer?” Who the fuck was that?

“The Lady Capernian, sir. She warned it was only possible because the destination was not quite in reality.”

_ Grand Astromancer. _ Well, that was a conversation for another day. And now that a portal was possible, even one created half in a pocket dimension, it was a conversation that could be had in person. 

Solanar Bloodwrath shoved his way to the center of the din as the Sunfuries stepped back through Erindae’s portal. “What do we have here, Grand Magister?”

Rommath would figure out what a  _ naaru _ was and what it meant for Silvermoon later. Spreading his arms wide, he indicated the creature in its arcane cage. “Prince Kael’thas has heard your cries and he has answered them! With this, the Blood Knight Order will never again succumb to Wretchedness!”

* * *

“Send it back. Send it back right now, mage.” 

Theron’s voice was harsh, and the leather patch covering his destroyed eye only served to emphasize his anger. His remaining eye was hard, flashing dangerously. 

Why had he thought the ranger deserved to know about the naaru?

“You don’t understand,” Rommath said slowly. “We  _ need _ it.”

“It is a living creature!” Theron shot back venomously. “It has a  _ name!” _

Kael had told him, sometime after, that the naaru was called M’uru. Rommath didn’t know if it mattered, knowing its name. “Your hawkstriders have names. Do you not use them?”

“This isn’t the same as fucking hawkstriders!” That was Brightwing, pitched forward in his chair. “We don’t kill hawkstriders to work with them!”

“We aren’t killing it. The Light keeps it safe from harm while we make use of its mana.” That was how Kael had explained it to him, and while the thought still made him uneasy (what sort of creature would the Light choose for such a purpose?), it was a much easier thought than state-sanctioned murder.

“Trolls flay themselves and their regenerative abilities keep them alive. It doesn’t mean they don’t feel the pain.”

“Are you suggesting that we are trolls, Regent Lord?” There was ice in Rommath’s words.

“I’m  _ suggesting _ that it’s barbaric and cruel!” Theron spat. “You cannot sate your own thirst with murder!”

“I don’t think this is quite the same as what the Wretched do, Lor’themar,” came Liadrin’s quiet, steady voice. “The Wretched are insane, while we are perfectly in possession of our mental faculties. We are merely borrowing from the naaru’s power, until a more permanent solution can be found.” 

Theron and Brightwing gaped at her. “You’re the one who explained what a naaru even  _ is, _ Lia!” 

(Rommath’s sister had known too, either her intimate connection with the Light or her many years of study granting her that uncommon knowledge. He wasn’t sure if her explanation had soothed or worried.  _ Naaru are chosen by the Light. They are beings of goodness and purity, and there are legends of them appearing in times of great need to the worthy.) _

Liadrin’s brows drew together. “If I were in that naaru’s place. If I had the power to help. I would give everything I had to do so. How do we know it didn’t go to the prince willingly and offer its services?”

“It did,” Rommath put in. “Prince Kael’thas told me as much.”

Brightwing scowled. “And how can we trust anything you say?”

“Excuse me?” Rommath raised an elegant eyebrow, trying very hard not to react further. Brightwing knew exactly how to get under his skin, and no conversation with the ranger involved was ever a productive one.

“Kael’thas refuses to speak to anyone but you. He’s run away to a completely different planet and we only have your word on what he says or does. Who the fuck are  _ you? _ How do we know you don’t have your own agenda? How do we know﹣”

Rommath registered Astalor’s arm smacking painfully across his chest before his brain registered the flames. His friend had thrown his arm out to keep him from leaping across the table, had smothered the fire before it could reach the Ranger General. 

“You will not insult the prince or myself, ranger! Your tiny mind cannot begin to comprehend the sacrifices we have made for the sin’dorei! You cannot possibly understand﹣”

And Brightwing was on his feet too, his face a furious mirror of Rommath’s own. “I know that the Wretched weren’t nearly as numerous before you showed up!” he hollered. “I know there was open communication between us and the Sanctum before you showed up! There were no secret portals or weird crystals or torturing of innocents when you weren’t here!”

“You would have us in anarchy! What do you know about leadership, you dirty forest gnoll? What have sleeping in trees and playing with bows taught you about making critical decisions?”

“I wouldn’t do to a  _ troll _ what you’re doing to that naaru!” Brightwing thundered. “No creature deserves its dignity stripped from it like that? It  _ cries _ when you hurt it, I’ve heard it!”

“You strip the dignity from your office with every word out of your ignorant mouth! Sylvanas Windrunner would never﹣”

_ “Don’t you dare mention Sylvanas, you pompous piece of _ ﹣”

“ENOUGH.” 

It was Liadrin who had spoken, and she stood now too. She levied them all ﹣ red-faced Brightwing and huffing Rommath, furious Theron and anxious Astalor ﹣ with a hard stare. “In the end,” she stated, her voice steel, “it is  _ none _ of your decision what the Blood Knights do with the naaru. I am the Matriarch, and I agree with Prince Kael’thas. If this creature wanted to leave, I’m sure it possesses enough power to do so of its own accord. It hasn’t. We released it from its cage and it stayed. It will remain in the Hall of Blood, and I will hear no further arguments about it!”

(Rommath had heard rumors that Liadrin had lost her faith. That she no longer felt the Light or its warmth, that she no longer considered herself chosen. Perhaps, he thought for a sickening moment, the siphoning of the naaru was her way of enacting vengeance of the Light that she’d felt abandoned her and her people. Or maybe, it was her way of finding her way back to its healing glow.)

“You are all grown men,” she snapped, “incapable of engaging in rational, respectful discussion. We will never regain our former glory if you continue to scream at each other like children.”

She stalked out then, rising so abruptly from her chair that it nearly tipped over and boots clomping on the tile floors. The fire went out and Rommath felt the fury drain from his bones. She was right. They were better than that.  _ He _ was better than that. 

Scowling, he smacked Astalor’s arm aside. He didn’t need to be restrained like some drunken brawler. Gathering his things, he turned sharply on his heel and stomped out. 

* * *

His sister stayed surprisingly mum on the matter of the naaru, and Rommath was grateful. He didn’t think he had the strength to argue with her when so many things were imploding in his face. Vor’na had tried to murder Aethas, home for a short time to visit Astalor, and in so doing had lost her own life. The Silvermoon guards had been forced to kill her or else watch as she drained the mana from Aethas’s veins, and while Rommath agreed their actions had been justified, he had not lost someone so close since the Scourge, and it hurt. Vor’na, twisted and violated and deranged from the power she’d needed to consume, first to change her own life and then to preserve it, had not deserved to be stabbed through with a ranseur. 

(The Wretched had mobilized with her death, desperate to gain the arcanum she’d worn around her neck. Rommath had ordered it seized before the burning of her body, but the guards had returned to him empty handed. He learned later it had been stolen by a Wretched boy, and did not understand why the news made his sister weep so.)

There was the extraordinarily difficult task of contacting Capernian, of demanding a portal inside the pocket dimension of his study’s closet. He needed to speak with Kael in person, not over the fragile connection of a scryer’s mirror. She relented in the end, and spent an inordinate amount of time instructing him on how to create it himself. He’d managed, in the end, drawing from a chunk of green crystal she’d pressed in his hand. Skin hot and tingling uncomfortably, he’d ripped open a portal to her workshop in Tempest Keep, and another one back home. Satisfied, he went to find Kael. 

Some time ago, Rommath knew not how long, he had sworn to himself he would gather his prince in his arms and kiss him, confess all his secret feelings and assure Kael that he was not alone, was never alone. But as he walked through Tempest Keep, nothing was further from his mind.

The walls were created of that strange, ethereal lavender crystal that was so good at containing mana. The air was tinged with it, and Rommath was immediately filled with the floaty, pleasant numbness he associated with living in Netherstorm. His head buzzed. He focused very hard on the task at hand, at finding Kael, his objective slipping from focus at the slightest distraction. 

There were more guards than he remembered, and more activity. He didn’t see that strange Solarian woman or even Telonicus, but he did see dozens of Sunfuries running about, in mail and plate or carrying stacks of papers and crates of reagents. They remembered him and bowed but did not stop. He supposed, with the defection of Kayn and Voren’thal and all those they’d taken with them, they no longer had time to stop. Some of them looked like they’d been awake for days. 

He was accosted by Lord Sanguinar, who insisted on walking him to Kael’s receiving chambers and asking insistently if any word had come of his daughter. Rommath did not tell the man that finding Valeera had never been on his list of priorities, had merely shaken his head and murmured apologies. Had Sanguinar always been so animated? So loud? Had his eyes always been such a brilliant emerald green? 

But it was Kael who drew his attention, the moment he was announced and shown inside. (And when was the last time he’d been  _ announced _ to Kael? They must have been children, long ago…) Kael turned to him, face blank for the smallest moment before splitting into a wide grin. “Well if it isn’t Rommath!” And what drew Rommath’s notice, more than the colored crystals littering the space or the lines on his face that the scrying mirror had hidden, were his eyes, large and glittering and almost feverish in the magelight. Like Sanguinar, his eyes were a dark, gleaming green.

(Rommath  _ knew _ Kael had blue eyes.) 

He felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

His prince felt the same, as they embraced, solid and sturdy against his chest, but the embrace itself wasn’t. Too short, too awkward. As if Kael had forgotten their closeness and was hugging a stranger. “Kael,” he said. “You look… well.” 

It wasn’t quite a lie. His face was fuller than it had been the last time they’d seen each other, and he gained a few pounds of healthy weight. His golden hair, though, had an odd sheen to it, and of course there was the peculiar new color of his eyes. He couldn’t stop himself. “What happened to your eyes?”

But Kael had not heard him, chattering rapidly in a way that was almost like how he used to, as if Rommath had never left at all. He was a ball of kinetic energy, couldn’t stay in one place. He tapped his fingers as he spoke, or his foot, or clinked crystals and bits of miscellaneous arcana in his hands. Rommath could remember Telonicus behaving in such a way, back in Dalaran, brain and hands always moving, but never Kael. Kael had held himself regally, moved purposefully. He had not been this container of frenetic energy. 

“﹣and Rommath, we’ve done it,” he was saying, throwing an arm out over a nearby table and seizing a large crystal. It pulsed with sickly green-yellow light, nearly (Rommath realized with a start) the same shade as Kael’s eyes. “Telonicus and Pathaleon have finally managed to not just infuse mana but to crystallize fel itself! Isn’t that wonderful?”

What. 

_ What. _

“Kael. What are you talking about?” He blinked past the hazy confusion that came with being in the Netherstorm. He must have misheard. 

_ “Fel,” _ Kael breathed, shoving the crystal in his face. He clearly meant for Rommath to take it, but Rommath couldn’t bring himself to touch it. It bled energy, acrid and heady and  _ addicting, _ and despite his horror, he almost felt himself reach for it. Almost. He felt all at once nauseated and feverish and cold, mana curling like a spring in his muscles and begging to be released. He felt like he had when he was sick, not long after Kael had shipped home the strange greenish crystals, but they hadn’t looked like this one. Not quite. There was something sinister about the gem in Kael’s hand, and a voice in the back of his mind that sounded vaguely like his sister screamed at him not to touch it. “A thousand times more potent than any mana crystal.” His voice was a whisper. “Rommath, with this we could save the sin’dorei.”

_ With this, we could destroy the sin’dorei, _ said the voice that resembled his sister’s. He stared.

“Where did you get that?” he asked slowly. And wait. Kael had said…  _ infusing? _ Did the crystals he’d distributed throughout Silvermoon carry this… this  _ fel? _

(He wracked his brain for what he knew of fel magic. It was not unknown to him, and he had read about it somewhere. In Dalaran, maybe? It was the very opposite of arcane, he knew, and books on the subject had been kept in the same parts of the library as those on void, blood, and death magicks. He didn’t have to remember what they books said to know that the crystal before him was dangerous, more dangerous than Wretchedness and maybe even Scourge undeath.)

Kael waved away the question impatiently. “What matters is we  _ have it.” _ (And wherever he’d gotten it, he seemed not to want to say, and that more than anything set off alarms in Rommath’s mind.) “The ones Telonicus has sent, how are they? They energize you, don’t they? They’re merely mana diluted with fel, but I promise I will send you home with a pure﹣”

“You sent  _ fel _ to Silvermoon?!” The books, he could see them in his mind’s eye. They required permission from a high ranking mage to read, and even Telestra had not had that power. They could not even be removed from the library, from the section in which they’d lived, and Rommath had made it through only one before he’d been thoroughly aghast. 

Fel was the magic of  _ demons. _

(And how had he been so stupid?! Now that he had a name for the strange green shade of glass, he shouted insults at himself in his mind, unable to believe he hadn’t put it together sooner. Kael had  _ sent fel to Silvermoon.) _

“Do you even know what fel is?!” he cried. He wanted to smack the gem out of his prince’s hands, but in doing so he might touch it, and if merely siphoning diluted fel had caused him and all of Silvermoon such illness, he didn’t want to find out what placing his bare skin on it would do. “Do you know what you’re doing?!”

Kael frowned. “Calm yourself, Rommath,” he sniffed, as if speaking to an unruly child. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

“How could I be  _ pleased, _ you idiot?! You realize that ingesting fel is how the orcs﹣”

“We’re not orcs,” Kael cut in. “We won’t succumb like they did. This crystal wasn’t made from pit lord blood.” And he rolled his eyes, Rommath thinking something like that was exasperating and exhausting. “Honestly, don’t you know anything?”

“Do you?!” And this explained so much. Kael’s distraction and lessening contact, everyone’s shorter tempers and the way they treated him as if he were an ignorant child. He  _ was _ ignorant. 

He never should have left.

“We’re perfectly safe,” Kael assured him. “Why do you think I sent you the naaru?”

“The naar﹣?”

“The Light will keep the corrupting from settling. Quel’Thalas doesn’t have the benefit of Netherstorm, with its unrestrained mana currents. And when I return, we’ll resurrect the Sunwell and power it with fel.” He spoke as if discussing nothing more serious than the weather, as if he weren’t talking about  _ corrupting the most holy place in Quel’Thalas with demonic energy. _ And he was watching, Rommath saw, as if… judging. 

He’d never arranged his face so quickly in his life. 

“Right.” His head was spinning. “Right.” Was this why the traitors had left? Capernian, Telonicus, Sanguinar ﹣ they all used the green crystals. It seemed Kael’s plan was well known to the Sunfury. 

“It will be some time before we’ll have gathered enough,” his prince went on, studying Rommath out of the corner of his eye. “I’ll let you know. In the meantime, I expect you to handle things at home.”

“Yes.” And he wasn’t lying, he told himself. He  _ would _ manage things in Silvermoon. As soon as he got back, he would find Astalor and together they would figure out what had happened to their prince. How to make him see sense. Kael was desperate, he knew, and wanted to save their people with his entire heart. Perhaps he thought the inherent evil could be stripped from fel, leaving clean, usable magic? (Rommath didn’t think that was even possible.)

“Good.” Kael seemed to realize that Rommath wouldn’t take the crystal from him, and he set it back down on the table. “Come, we have much to catch up on.” When he spun, the strange nether cloth of his robes caught the light, shimmering in an alien, though not unattractive way. Rommath watched him seat himself, heart racing. 

_ Kael… What the fuck have you gotten us into? _

  
  


And not long afterward, on his way back to Capernian’s workshop, Rommath learned what, exactly, his prince had done. He heard hooves clacking on the smooth crystal floors, saw the reflection in the glass of a tall, broad shouldered…  _ thing _ . Its skin was blisteringly red, and twisted horns grew from its skull. 

He had Capernian cast the portal. He didn’t have the focus. And when he’d stepped through, when she’d snapped it closed and he’d slammed the closet door, he doubled over and retched, right there on the carpet in his study. He felt cold all over, couldn’t stop shaking. 

He had the sickening, terrifying feeling that whatever had gotten its claws into Kael would not let him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose to end the past here so as not to repeat the Burning Legion flashbacks Rommath has in the present, something I was worried I might end of doing if I didn't limit myself. 
> 
> Two chapters left!


	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rommath talks about his feelings.

Rommath took a deep breath. “I have loved you since I was one hundred and seventy-four years old. I never told you, and I’m sorry.”

The little orange flowers on Kael’s grave blew softly in the breeze, but other than the distant shouts of murlocs from the beaches, he was met with silence. It wasn’t like Kael could answer anyway. 

“You were brilliant. Just… brilliant. In every way. I’d planned to spend the rest of my life by your side.” 

He swallowed around the lump in his throat. He had been too emotional and overwhelmed by the remembrance festival to come sooner, could only imagine the incomprehensible mess he’d be now if he had. Would have been tempted to forgo confessing to a dead man in favor of recounting the Chapel’s beautiful faerie lights and complaining about Vereesa Windrunner and her delegation of high elves. (Lor’themar had insisted, no matter their current affiliations, that any elf who wished be allowed to celebrate. They had lost loved ones too. One year with the Sunwell’s energies thrumming in their veins was their victory too.) Would have put off his confession for another day, and danced around it. 

It didn’t matter, really, if he told Kael or not. Kael was dead, and nothing Rommath could say would bring him back. Knowing Rommath loved him would change nothing. But it was important that he say it, Rommath thought. Aside from his tearful word vomit the other week, Rommath had never actually said the words aloud. It felt freeing, in a way. 

“And I don’t blame you. Not really. For what happened. I understand why you did it.” He blinked, eyes burning gently. “I think I might be the only one left who does. I know how badly you wanted to save us.” His voice caught and he stopped. Swallowed. Started again. “I think, if I had been there ﹣ not just been there but been _you_ ﹣ I think I would have done the same thing.” 

(And wouldn’t that send rumors flying, he thought dully, if Silvermoon could hear him now. Kath’mar would be proudly, smugly vindicated, if he could hear Rommath right now.)

It was difficult, speaking to Kael’s grave, but Rommath supposed it would have been difficult no matter the outcome. It was important for him to say it out loud, and there was no one there to judge his words anyway.

“Everything I’ve ever done was for you,” he continued after a moment. _“Everything._ You have…” He took a shaky breath. “You have no idea.” And then he laughed, strained but nevertheless real. “I don’t even _like_ ale, you asshole, and how many times did you place it in front of me and watch me drink it?” 

It wasn’t just ale, of course. He’d always been driven by two forces, by Kael and magic, and oftentimes Kael was the stronger of the two. “And you just… Never looked at me. Did you? Not the way I wanted you to.”

Kael said nothing, and even the sounds of the murlocs had faded as they splashed out to start the day’s hunting. 

He huffed, the action drawing more air into his lungs and opening his tight throat. “I never let myself want anything, because in the back of my mind, _always_ there was this little voice whispering that I _could_ have you. That you could want me. And it’s not that you ever made me do things I didn’t want to do, but. There were a lot of things I could have done, and didn’t. Because of you.”

He toed at the grass. The roughly dug grave from a year ago had grown over with soft Quel’Danas grass and bits of blooms, and someone, at one point, had planted pretty little orange marigolds to serve as the marker. Kael would have liked them, he thought. He’d always loved beautiful things.

Rommath frowned. “I know you’re not here,” he murmured. “Not really. But you _were,_ and I just… I had to tell you. I had to tell you that I loved you, and I’m sorry I didn’t do it while you were alive. I was a coward.”

A butterfly flitted past, its orange wings a pleasant match to the marigolds. It landed on a petal and stopped for a moment, doing whatever it was insects did. Rommath watched it with disinterest.

“I suppose I’m trying to say…” He sighed. Scrubbed a hand over his face. “Astalor told me my sister taught him to do things for himself. He’s been so strong, after her death. I don’t think you’d recognize him. I hardly do.” He shook his head, knowing he was getting off track. “One of the most important things one can do is to do things for oneself, and no one else. This year, Kael…” His voice cracked a little, but he pressed on. “It’s been the longest of my life. But I’ve been learning how to do that. It’s difficult.” And here he huffed again, a little mirthless laugh. “It’s really fucking difficult. But you were the one I did everything for, and you aren’t here anymore. There’s no one else to please except myself. I think I’ve learned more about myself since you…. in the last year than I did the other fifteen hundred. And Astalor…” He sighed again. “Astalor has been… We should have been better to him, Kael. He’s a better man than us both.” 

Quietly, he pulled from the air a pink prickly puff, a conjured version of the little flowers from his childhood, now wiped out by the Scourge. He’d never thought much of them, if he was honest, but now that they were gone, he missed them. Yet another thing he could never get back. He placed it beneath the marigolds where it clashed horridly with their fiery petals, and a little smile worked its way along his mouth at the imagined horror it would have sparked on Kael’s face. 

“I’ll never stop loving you,” he whispered. “I don’t know how. But I can’t go on the way I have been. I can’t live the rest of my life unhappy and… _chained_ to you and your memory.” If Kael were here, standing with him now, Rommath knew he’d understand. Beyond everything else, Kael had always wanted to be _happy._ He would not fault Rommath for wanting the same. 

He stood there for some time, quietly. Listened to waves in the distance and watched the little butterfly flutter down to inspect his conjured flower. He wondered, in the back of his mind, if the butterfly knew it wasn’t real and didn’t have a smell, or if it was merely appreciating the color. For the smallest, briefest moment, he thought he’d like to trade places with the creature, to live simply and concerned only with flowers and other pretty things. 

When the sun was high in the sky and his knees started to feel stiff, Rommath pressed the tips of his fingers to his lips. Knelt. Placed those fingers on the grass of Kael’s grave. Gave him the kiss he’d never been able to give. His eyes burned and he shut them, seeing his prince as he had been behind his lids. Beautiful and ridiculous and happy. And then he stood, collected his hawkstrider from where it had wandered some ways away, and headed back to Dawnstar Village.

* * *

Neeluu was outside when he returned to the estate, a tray of food ignored before her in favor of penning a long letter. The ink shimmered as it dried, the same shade as her hair. A spot of it stained her thumb. 

“Well hello there,” she said pleasantly. “I wasn’t expecting visitors today.” 

“You have visitors every day.”

“I don’t think the villagers count. They live here.” She set the letter aside, at its head in fine looping script _Dear Jaina._ “Have you eaten? Karynna’s just brought lunch, but I can fetch you a tr﹣”

“No.” He shook his head. He wasn’t here for lunch. Without hesitating, he sat at the spindly little table, pulling his chair a little closer. Neeluu frowned. 

“Is everything alright?” 

“Yes.” _Dear Jaina_ caught his eye again, the lines and lines of ink spilling down the page. “Neeluu, I… May we talk?”

“Of course. Always.”

Rommath frowned too. Everything he had thought to say had flown out of his head. Confessing to Kael had been easier. 

Though Kael was _dead_ and could not have any reaction to his words, whereas Neeluu was very much alive, and looking at him in concern. “Neeluu, I…” Not for the first time, he wished he had his sister’s talent for difficult conversations. She had received their mother’s gentle demeanor, while Rommath had gotten all their father’s sharp edges. “More than once,” he tried again, but the sentence broke apart as he said it, and he shut his mouth, frown deepening. 

“Why are you still friends with Jaina?”

Oh, that was brilliant. 

Neeluu raised an eyebrow. “Jaina has always been one of my closest friends,” she said slowly. “I know how you feel about her… neutrality, but﹣”

“No.” Rommath tried not to sound as frustrated as he felt. “No, that’s not what I…” He sighed, and looked at her sheepishly. “I’m not good with personal matters.” 

And Neeluu, bless her, did not laugh or take offense, and suppressed a smile as she replied, “I know. It’s alright. It’s only recently we’ve ever spoken closely at all.” 

And that was his fault. Perhaps their distance as children couldn’t be helped, as he and Thalorien had never been close either, but Rommath had always held her at arm’s length after her arrival in Dalaran, and more so after the announcement of her betrothal to Kael. He almost wished Astalor were here. Astalor always knew what he meant.

(A terrifying thought occurred to him then, of Halduron eavesdropping and bursting with impatience, running in and calling him an imbecile. _Just speak!_ Halduron would say. _You’ve never had any trouble at all saying how you feel about_ **_me._ ** And another thought, this time something Kael would say: _Pretend she’s Halduron then, and just let loose._ He almost laughed, and barely managed to rein it in.)

“Neeluu,” he tried again, forgoing the gentle wading into the conversation in favor of cannonballing right in. “I need you to understand something. About me.”

And she nodded, watching him very seriously. If she was unsure what they were discussing, she gave no indication. “Go on.”

By the Sunwell, he didn’t know how gnomes did it. Feelings were _exhausting._ “I understand your affection toward me.” And it bothered him, how formally he felt himself become in that moment, but without his cowl or magister’s stave, he was only Rommath, and he wasn’t entirely sure how to be Rommath to another person. “And I’m not…” He grappled for words. The formality hadn’t increased his vocabulary, it seemed. “I appreciate it. I like it, rather.” 

( _“I feel the same!”_ Halduron would screech at him. _Say that, you asshole!)_

“But I don’t… I feel it would be… _dishonest_ , if I did not tell you. I’ve never… I’ve never considered my own wants, or feelings.” Fucking feelings. “My entire life, there was only Kael. I would have done anything for him. I loved him.” 

He watched her consider him, slowly, before nodding. “I loved him too,” she said. “We all did.”

“No.” Light, how could he have this conversation if all he said was _no?_ “No, you told me once that you did not. Not as a wife loves her husband.” He held her gaze. “I did.” 

“Oh.” 

He waited for it to dawn on her. For a reaction. He knew not everyone was Astalor, not everyone accepted what they were told without question. And he knew, had always feared, that not everyone looked favorably upon a man loving another man. His father certainly wouldn’t have, and he suspected his brothers hadn’t either. (His mother, he thought, would not have understood but would have loved him all the same, being her oldest and her favorite son. And Auriel, he knew, never would have questioned it all. The Light taught love, and Auriel lived her life by its words.) But Neeluu, it seemed, didn’t care that Rommath had loved another man, or even her betrothed. Instead a wry smile twisted her lips, and with a gentle tinkling laugh she said, “Well, that explains a lot.” 

He didn’t think she was laughing _at_ him. “And because of that,” he went on, “I’m afraid I never allowed myself to truly like you.” 

She wasn’t offended. “You suggested I marry him.”

“Because you would have been best for him. And, selfish as it sounds, because we were friendly, and I didn’t… I didn’t think you’d take him away from me.” 

“I wouldn’t have. I liked you. Even back then, I liked you and your friends. I’d never really had friends, before Dalaran,” she admitted. “Besides Lana’thel. Thalorien and I were always kept away from other children.” 

Before the Scourge, Quel’Danas had been an isolated isle. The Dawnseekers had been well known among its inhabitants and the wealthy elite of Silvermoon, and being charged with the protection of the Sunwell made them known in name if nothing else to the rest of the population, but they had always been surrounded by people much older than themselves. Older and stuffier and very refined. In hindsight, it surprised Rommath not at all that Thalorien had rebelled at hard as he did. 

“You knew,” he said suddenly, “about Jaina. That even engaged to you, Kael loved her. Why did you stay her friend?” It wasn’t hard for elves to sequester themselves away from the races, he knew. Their friends had done it more often than not.

Neeluu cocked her head. “That wasn’t her fault. Jaina was in love with Arthas; she did nothing to encourage Kael at all.” She shrugged, a small, gentle movement. “One can’t help who they love.”

“It had to have hurt.”

“I’m sure it hurt you as well.” 

“I must confess, the only reason I still spoke to her was because of my friendship with you.” Jaina Proudmoore had infuriated him. It wasn’t just that she was a literal child, only fifteen years to his near thousand. It wasn’t even that she was a human. It was because Jaina Proudmoore was the only person in Rommath’s entire life who made him feel _inferior._ Not good enough. Before Jaina, he had never felt he wasn’t enough for Kael. “I’m not a _good_ man, Neeluu.”

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “You’ve always been good to me. You wouldn’t have felt the need to tell me these things if you weren’t.” 

He stared at her, but she remained firm in her assessment. “You would have either spurned me completely or courted me anyway,” she went on, “and never once mentioned you loved someone else. For all your similarities to Kael’thas, you two are very different, Rommath. You’re more honest than he ever was, and no _bad_ man is honest.”

Well. He supposed she had a point. 

"I can't give you all that Kael could," he told her. "My family estate is gone, and my name means nothing. I can't give you a crown."

"I never wanted a crown, Rommath," she said gently. "I never wanted to be queen." 

“I can’t… I can’t be everything you need. Maybe someday, but…” 

She placed a hand on his arm, fingers aligning with the scarlet lines of arcane tattoos. “That’s alright,” she said kindly. “No one can be everything, Rommath. That’s too much responsibility to put on one person.” She smiled at him. “Rommath, I know who and what you are and I take no offense to the things you cannot do. Above all else, we will always be friends. If someday is all you have, then someday is what I have as well.” It hurt to say, he saw, in the glassiness of her eyes, but she paid that no mind, and he knew the exact way she must feel in this moment. He had felt it often himself. She was trying, as best she could, to respect him and his limitations, and the lump in his throat grew at the realization. 

He would not treat her like he had Nall. Nall, who had worked with him and loved him, who had shared his bed and his meals and his time. Nall, who could not have respected Rommath’s limits because he hadn’t known he’d had any. 

Perhaps one year wasn’t enough to move on from Kael, but it was long enough for Rommath to realize, for the first time, that he wanted to. It would hurt, and definitely be difficult, but each day hurt a tiny bit less than the last, and Neeluu was saying that that was okay. That she expected nothing from him in that moment or even ever, so long as their friendship remained intact. He couldn’t believe or understand the selflessness of his friend, and he didn’t _want_ her to be that way. Like him, Neeluu had always done what others expected of her, and that… that wasn’t okay anymore. Maybe it had never been okay at all. 

(He remembered something Halduron said, several months ago in the gardens, with Kim’alah purring loudly between them. _I had Velonara for five hundred years. She was always there_ ﹣ _pushing me, challenging me. Making me want to do better,_ **_be_ ** _better._ Rommath had never felt that for Kael, he remembered thinking. But looking at Neeluu now, he thought he understood Halduron’s words.)

He covered her hand on his arm with his own. Tried to convey meaning in his face where his words failed. “We will always be friends,” he swore. “You’ve been in my life too long for me to give you up now.” And that got a little laugh out of her. 

“Exactly. I think we’re stuck with each other,” she agreed. Rommath didn’t know if he’d said it correctly (because, if he were terribly, painfully honest, even his casual relationships in Dalaran had always been more about sex and less about companionship, and he wasn’t quite sure he was doing this right), but she didn’t seem upset like she’d been that night on the isle, or in the Small Court before he’d gone to Deatholme. “Now come on.” She patted his hand with her other one. “It’s really getting late, and you’re already here. Have lunch with me.” 

  
  
  


It didn’t happen overnight. In fact, by the time anything happened at all, Halduron had lost a significant amount of gold to Lor’themar, and Liadrin, at Halduron’s wailing, merely rolled her eyes and grumbled, “So this is what you’ve been doing instead of _your jobs.”_

Nothing changed. Neeluu still came to the city every few days, sat in on council meetings and diplomatic assessments and budget talks for the Dawnblades; and Rommath still found himself on Quel’Danas once a week or so, visiting his sister’s grave with Astalor. As they had before, Rommath and Neeluu would sometimes take meals together or meet for talks about the reconstruction of Magister’s Terrace. Occasionally she would cajole him into traipsing about Quel’Danas and performing necessary tasks like crabbing (and Rommath decided he _hated_ crabs, after one pinched him so hard it nearly took off his finger), or accompanied Rommath on his inspections of guild halls and Sanctum projects. She was particularly enamored with a new development by Erindae’s students, Maltrake and Peoreth, which involved temporal displacement and the hasty reclamation of several sanctum cats. 

“Are you going to let her go?”

Rommath’s hold tightened around Kim’alah, who was insistent on draping herself over his shoulder like some sort of squirrel. “I don’t understand why they have to use the cats,” he hissed. 

“Well, they _are_ everywhere,” Neeluu giggled, trying and failing to stop at his sharp glare. Kim’alah, for her part, seemed undisturbed by her latest adventure and near death, and instead butted her head hard against Rommath’s ear. He reached up and scritched along her back, frowning.

“She seems fine. Don’t you, Kim’alah?” And the cat chirped in his ear, before gathering her legs and using his collarbone as a launching pad towards a passing bug. Rommath winced and bit his tongue on the litany of swear words threatening to escape. 

“Are you alright?” Neeluu’s hands flew to his chest, where under his robes he was sure there were ten little pinpricks from Kim’alah’s sharp claws. 

“Just a scratch,” Rommath said dismissively. “She’s a cat. It happens.” 

Neeluu wasn’t convinced. “It looked like it hurt.”

“Of course it hurt!” he laughed. “But it’s fine. I’ve had worse.” He still had the scars from the gargoyle in Deatholme, raking along that very same bone and down his chest. 

She didn’t remove her hand. Rather, she very carefully traced her fingers along the tiny holes Kim’alah had pricked through the fabric, and before Rommath had quite registered what he was doing, he found his hand had come up to cup the back of her head, and he was leaning forward to press his lips to her hair. 

They froze. Though they had become closer since that afternoon at the estate, that had been a long time ago. They were standing very close together, he realized, less than the length of Neeluu’s arm on his chest between them, and Rommath was touching her _hair…_

It was Rommath who moved first. Gently, he removed his hand from the back of her head, strands of inky dark hair trailing between his fingers. His heart thudded wildly in his chest but he felt strangely calm. He hadn’t kissed anyone since… Light. Since Nallorath. 

“Sorry.” His voice came out low and warm. “That was forward of me.”

“It’s alright.” It came as a whisper, as if she was afraid to breathe. 

A beat. 

“Can I﹣”

“Yes.” She breathed the word so softly he almost didn’t hear, allowed him to tilt her chin up so that he could press their lips together in a gentle, chaste kiss. 

(He learned later that, had he kissed her less than an hour later, Halduron would have lost another three hundred gold to Lor’themar, and for some reason, the idea did not irritate him as it once would have. Instead he rolled his eyes and buried his smirk in his paperwork.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all can decide for yourselves exactly how much time passed between Rommath and Neeluu's talk and their kiss. Whatever "a long time" means to you. It is not present day-BFA or even Legion, however. 
> 
> I'm unsure how elf aging works, given that they live for about three thousand years. I know I messed up ages in this fic due to my inability to math in any way, but what's always true is:
> 
> Astalor and Aethas are older than Rommath, who is older than Kael, who is older than Neeluu, who is around the same age as Rommath's sister. Rommath is older than Liadrin, who is only two years older than Lor'themar (who has been established to be 1400-something in Family), who is the same age as Halduron. Halduron is younger than Velonara, who is younger than Rommath. And Salandria, of course, is seven. :)


	44. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Astalor works in his garden, and Rommath reflects on his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set an indeterminate amount of time in the future.

“Uncle Astalor, look!” 

“Let go!”

“Not until he looks!”

“Let  _ go!” _

A shriek. “That’s not fair!  _ Uncle Astalor!” _

They were supposed to be helping in the garden. The “help” hadn’t been happening for a good forty minutes. 

“Don’t set fire to the plants,” Astalor warned. “I need these.” He felt very far removed from the latest schools of healing, and his alchemy had never been great, but his little garden of healing herbs was much help for the citizens of Dawnstar Village, and for the priests directly under the tutelage of High Priest Kath’mar who resided there. Expanding his little garden into his entire backyard had been worth it, Astalor thought, since it was one less thing to buy from the mainland or import from Lordaeron. Quel’Danas had always been about self sufficiency, even before the Scourge. 

“I didn’t set fire to the plants!” the little boy protested, but Astalor smelled the scorch of grass after a moment and turned around in alarm. His sister was stomping on the ground furiously, but there were no flames. 

“I got it,” she said quickly. “It’s okay.” Astalor couldn’t quite be angry ﹣ he remembered when he’d first learned to call fire. Fire was unstable and unpredictable, and it was imperative that fire mages start their schooling as soon as their abilities manifested. Astalor knew the boy had a private tutor, but being a fire mage himself, he didn’t think any additional training would hurt. 

“Control over fire comes from the breath, Belorien,” he instructed. “Even in the most desperate situations, if you can control your breathing, you can control the fire. The breath becomes energy in the body, and the energy extends past your limbs and becomes fire.” He watched as the little boy took several deep breaths, as he’d been taught. 

“An'da doesn’t lose control so easily,” his sister berated him, and Astalor nearly laughed out loud. If only she knew that her father was the product of nearly two  _ thousand _ years of learning to keep his temper in check. 

“An'da doesn’t get thrown in a headlock by his stupid sister!” Belorien shot back. 

“Maybe you should have dodged,” the girl said calmly, and earned herself a smack. “Ow! Uncle Astalor!”

“Stop taunting each other,” Astalor said mildly. He dumped a handful of silverleaf in a basket and a handful of steelbloom in another, and placed a basket each in their arms. “I said you could visit if you were going to  _ help.” _

“You forgot the mageroyal,” Belorien said, helpfully. 

Astalor nodded, and dumped a second basket in the boy’s arms. “Take these to Mar’nah,” he instructed. “And do what she asks you to.” Mar’nah was the best alchemist on the isle, and she made all the salves and potions for the residents. Occasionally she was asked into the city by the head of the Alchemists’ Guild for her insight. 

“An'da said to invite you to dinner,” the girl called over her shoulder, trooping in the direction of his property line and the village. “If you weren’t busy.” 

“You seem busy,” Belorien said quickly, shooting his sister a look. He was probably afraid Astalor would tell their father about his slip in control. He was still new to magic, but he took every mistake hard. Astalor smiled reassuringly at him.

“I’m not, and I’d like to come,” he said gently. “Go on, Mar’nah’s waiting.” He watched them go, a Dawnblade trailing behind them and their black hair shining in the sun. He loved those kids, but every so often he was struck by how  _ exactly _ they resembled their namesakes, and his heart hurt. Belorien was nearly a copy of his uncle Thalorien, and his sister… 

Well. Astalor tried very hard to remain impartial, but Auri’thel was his favorite. Her skill with Light and sword reminded him so much of his wife, and when she bickered with her brother, Astalor saw only Auriel and Rommath. He wondered if Rommath saw it too. 

He busied himself with his new kingsblood bushes, mind wandering as he found them the perfect spot ﹣ not too sunny, but without the cloying shade favored by his briarthorns. Rommath had done well for himself, he thought, swelling with pride. Of course there were those like Kath’mar, who believed that Rommath had married above his station solely to secure his position in the Triumvirate, but that couldn’t be helped. People like Kath’mar would always believe the worst in people like Rommath, as though he had done nothing to prove himself loyal to Quel’Thalas, to their city and their people. As though Rommath hadn’t sacrificed himself more than once for the sin’dorei. In the years since Kael’s death, Rommath may not have forgotten their prince but he’d distanced himself from him. It was only people like Kath’mar, and the old nobility of Silvermoon, who thought he hadn’t. They didn’t know Rommath as he did. 

Astalor wasn’t surprised that his friend’s eldest had been blessed by the Light, not when Rommath’s sister had been chosen by it and the Light had run strong in Neeluu’s family for generations. Rommath hadn’t been surprised either, the day Salandria had come running and told them all of the glow Auri’thel had called forth, healing her own skinned knees before hauling herself off the ground and attempting to lunge at the older girl with her wooden sword. In the old days, before the Scourge and the loss of Quel’Delar, Auri’thel would have been taken up both her mother’s old title and that of the Swordbearer, but Quel’Delar was gone and Neeluu had no intentions of forcing her daughter into a future as Warden of the Sunwell. She had proven that a mage could do the job as well as any priest, and perhaps one day she and Rommath would decide who would succeed her but not now. For now they maintained that children were children and should be treated as such, and altogether were raising Belorien and Auri’thel quite differently than they themselves had been raised.

If Rommath hadn’t proven himself adept at magic, his own father would have expected him to inherit his estate in Tranquillien and his minor titles. Instead the title passed to his younger brother Merhean (and then existed not at all with the obliteration of Tranquillien and Rommath’s refusal to claim it), and Rommath went on to become the Grand Magister. In the old days before the Scourge, Astalor was sure he would have seen Belorien’s potential and taken him on as an apprentice himself. The Grand Magister was not an inherited position as Warden was, but nepotism had often run rampant in the old government. Rommath’s own appointment had been the first in many centuries to be completely on his own merits. But Rommath probably would have thought that his son would do a better job of it, having been raised from birth so close to the office, and poor Erindae Firestrider would have been cast aside for Belorien as Vandellor had once done to Vor’na in favor of Liadrin. The Scourge had changed them, however. Had changed all of Quel’Thalas. If Belorien acquired the office at all, it would be  _ after _ Erindae, who would have trained him herself. 

Astalor sat back on his heels, wiping his dirty hands on the grass. The Rommath he’d grown up was not the same man he was now. The Rommath he’d grown up with would have sent Belorien to the Royal Academy, and Auri’thel to the Dawnblades. He wouldn’t have kept his children at home, albeit with private tutors, and allowed them free reign of the city and Quel’Danas. He wondered how much of that was Rommath’s doing and how much was Neeluu’s. Neeluu had never been given much freedom as a child, but with Kael at his side, Rommath had had more than he’d known what to do with. 

Before he went inside, Astalor picked a few chromatic lilies. When he’d started his garden, he’d only wanted medicinal plants. He’d felt it was the best way to honor his late wife, who had little use for decorative things. But when Auri’thel had been born, Silvermoon had gifted Rommath and Neeluu a cutting of its prized chromatic lilies, and while the couple excelled with the practical applications of plants they couldn’t keep one alive to save their lives, and so Astalor had taken it, planted it aesthetically between the little white peaceblooms and the wiry, late-blooming Khadgar’s whisker, and thought perhaps his wife wouldn’t mind. She’d always been concerned with the healing of souls, and as Kael had once told him, beautiful things went a long way towards the pursuit of happiness. He always liked to bring a few blooms to the Warden’s estate, if only because they looked pretty against the black of Neeluu’s and Auri’thel’s hair.

* * *

Things had changed since the Scourge. It wasn’t only the dismantling of the old style of government or the diminishing power of the nobility. Small things had changed as well: the government stimulus for new parents to encourage the birth rate, or the burning of bodies over burial. Even naming conventions, once a long and storied affair, had overgone a massive overhaul. Once it was common to name a child after a quality they were hoped to embody. Rommath’s own name meant “strength,” and Neeluu’s “patience.” In the wake of the Scourge, it had quickly become tradition to name children after loved ones, to carry on the legacies of those they had lost. The first child born after the Scourge had been named Lyanis after his grandfather, and the child afterward for both her aunt and grandmother, until all of Quel’Thalas had wholeheartedly embraced the idea.

Naming his daughter had been easy. Auriel had once been the most important woman in Rommath’s life, and Lana’thel in Neeluu’s.  _ Auri _ was an old word for the religion that became the Light, and  _ Thel _ meant grace, and there was something achingly poetic in the new name that Rommath enjoyed. His son had been more difficult, being nameless for weeks. Rommath had a father and grandfather, two brothers, and a handful of friends from whom to draw inspiration. He supposed the boy could have carried the name Thalorien himself ﹣  _ Thalorien _ was a good name, and in the wake of his death, the wild reputation Neeluu’s brother had carried in life had largely died with him. But being that he was the child of the Grand Magister and the Warden of the Sunwell, Rommath would not dare name him after Kael, regardless of the fact that he had been loved by Rommath and Neeluu both. Rommath needed no more fuel to the terrible rumors that he was unloyal, and the poor boy should not have to bear such a burden. 

In the end, it was Belo’vir who gave his name to Rommath’s son, because it had been Belo’vir who had plucked him from the unknowns of Tranquillien and the obscurity of the Royal Academy, Belo’vir who had sent him to Dalaran, and Belo’vir who had taken him on as his apprentice. Without Belo’vir, Rommath’s entire life would be terribly different, and in fact he may have perished in Tranquillien and not had a life at all. Without Belo’vir, Rommath would not have met Kael and certainly would not have been as miserable, but he also would not have met Astalor, his closest friend and brother and godfather to his children, and nor would he have met Neeluu, who so beautifully embodied the quality of her name, who so patiently and gently helped him heal. 

It hadn’t been easy, and for a long time Rommath believed that loving anyone else at all was a betrayal of his feelings for Kael. It had been quite a long time before he understood that having feelings for someone else did not mean he’d never had them for Kael at all. What he felt for Neeluu was not the painful desperation he’d felt for Kael, and over time he learned what Astalor and his sister had always told him was true: Love was gentle and kind and patient. It was a complex mixture of affection, warmth, and respect. Before Neeluu, Rommath had always assumed love was something he would only receive from his family and Astalor, who was basically family anyway. Neeluu had taught him that was not true. And when his children had been born, he learned that love was protectiveness and trust and unconditional. He had never loved anyone as much as he loved Auri’thel and Belorien. He loved them so much he thought his heart would break, and not in the frenzied, agonizing way he had loved Kael. He sometimes found himself watching them ﹣ sleeping in their cradles, playing under the supervision of Dawnblades, Auri’thel sparring with Salandria and Belorien hard at work with his magical studies ﹣ and found himself smiling for no reason, his chest tight in a way that was different from when he thought about his sister or Kael, or even Nallorath. If this was what his mother had felt for him and Auriel and their brothers… 

He sighed, and tore himself away from the window. He couldn’t imagine, if his parents had felt like this, being able to send them away to study in the city. Perhaps Rommath was just selfish, lucky and wealthy enough to afford the best private tutors, but he could never part with his children as his parents had with him and Auriel. That took a sort of courage he wasn’t sure he had. 

Kael still appeared to him in his dreams, but so did Nallorath and his brothers and Vor’na and all the rest. Rommath thought perhaps they always would, and he no longer dreaded sleeping at night. And when those dreams woke him, when he dreamt of the Scourge and charred bodies and the murders committed by the Wretched, Neeluu was right there, running a hand through his hair and holding him to her until he quieted. 

Tyrael Flamekissed still didn’t like him, but Rommath trusted no one else to guard his wife. Whatever else, Tyrael would give his life for Neeluu, and for their children too. He thought, perhaps, he’d even lay down his life for Rommath, because Neeluu loved him. 

“I’ve been told I was asked to dinner,” came the voice of Astalor somewhere to his left, and Rommath turned, smiled at him. 

“You were, but you’re early.”

“Sorry to interrupt your repose with your cat,” Astalor teased, leaning down to stroke the orange fur of Kim’bel, who was dozing quietly on the sill. Kim’bel mrrped at the disturbance, and then twisted upside down and allowed Astalor to scritch her belly. “Where’s the other one?” 

Rommath shrugged. When Kim’dal, his little star from Kael, had given birth, he’d kept tiny grey Kim’alah, and when Kim’alah had delivered her last litter, just two small orange kittens, he’d found he couldn’t separate them. Kim’bel was lazy, often sleeping in one of the many patches of sunlight on the estate, but Kim’ore was nosy. He possessed no sense of self preservation, and Rommath was sure one day he’d find the cat in the sea with the murlocs, batting at tadpoles and stealing their fish. “No idea,” he admitted, and that thought ﹣ the one of  _ not knowing _ something ﹣ didn’t bother him as it once might have. 

Astalor ruffled the creamy fur of Kim’bel’s belly thoughtfully. “Probably gone to find Belorien and Auri’thel,” he mused. “He seems to like them more than you.”

“That’s a common feeling in Quel’Thalas,” Rommath remarked mildly. And that didn’t bother him terribly either.  _ He _ may not be the country’s favorite person, but the common people had wholeheartedly embraced his children, a feat he credited to their Dawnseeker blood. 

“I like you better than them.”

“Don’t lie to me.” 

And Astalor grinned. “You have to admit, they’re tough competition.” 

“Mm.” Whenever he looked into their eyes, both golden like the sun, all he saw was Auriel. 

“You know,” his friend said after a moment, “I’ll be honest with you. I never imagined you as a father.”

“Neither did I,” Rommath confessed. 

“You don’t seem like the type to take to children.”

He shook his head. “I’ve always liked children.” They reminded him of his own childhood, of his brothers’ mops of curly hair and snotty crying faces, of Sorrem’s wide-eyed wonder as he sparked the faerie lights to life in the garden, or Merhean’s gentle tug on his sleeve when he was nervous, of herding toddlers away from his father’s study and making flower crowns with his sister. 

Children were innocent, ignorant of the world and its hardships, tiny bodies barely able to contain any one emotion. They reminded him of a time when the world was simple, before the Burning Legion and the Scourge and Kael. 

_ Make me proud, son, _ his father had once said. Arguably, Rommath had spent his life doing just the opposite. But if there were one thing in his life he was proud of, it was his children. Belorien with his angry little flames and Auri’thel, filled with holy fire. He liked to think his father would be proud of the man he’d become, even if it had taken so long to get there. He liked to think, after his escaping to Dalaran and refusal to be molded into the perfect son, after centuries languishing after Kael and making questionable decisions, that he’d finally done enough to earn his father’s favor. That  _ he _ was finally enough. 

_ Make me proud, son. _

_ I will, sir. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally did it! Thank you everyone who've been with me from the beginning, who suffered through near daily updates shifting into weekly, who put up with my characters not doing a single thing they were told and me throwing up my hands and saying "WHATEVER, DO WHAT YOU WANT." This was supposed to be a _two-shot_ , and look what it became!
> 
> Rommath's cats are all modeled after my own, and they all have a theme. _Kim_ means "little," and I decided early on that his cats, the ones who actually belong to him, will be named Little _something_. Kim'dal (a tribute to the amazing shinyforce who inspired this fic with her beautiful story [Impossible](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12088695/chapters/27399756)) is _Little Star_ , Kim'alah is _Little Light_ , and both Kim'bel and Kim'ore share _Little Sun_ (which is _belore_ in Thalassian, and also in Rommath's son's name). 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and drop me a comment if you enjoyed it!
> 
>  **EDIT:** Enough now has a companion story, [At Last I See The Light](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27160354), featuring the love story between Astalor and Auriel. I had to. I love these kids. Like half the characters and plotlines in this story, Auriel and her relationship were supposed to be a one-off, and instead became so important they warranted their own story.


End file.
